


Benedict's Doctor

by Cumberknit



Category: British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-02
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-24 05:58:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 47,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cumberknit/pseuds/Cumberknit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benedict Cumberbatch meets an independent professional woman on the train from London to Cardiff, on his way to start filming season two of Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The train was packed. Who would have thought that so many people wanted to go to Cardiff, of all places, on a Saturday afternoon? I had barely made it, squeezing aboard with my luggage just as the doors were closing. Now I was inching down the aisle, hugging my purse and laptop case to my front and dragging my overnight case behind. This car was completely full, a cacophony of chatting people and too-loud supposedly-personal music players. I manhandled the door open, managing not to drop anything, and fumbled my way into the next car. As the door clicked shut behind me on its quiet hydraulics, I was greeted by silence. This car was appointed differently, with more spacious seating, and tables that could be folded back against the wall or set up between opposing benches. There were curtains on the windows, blocking most of the May sunshine. There were also curtains located so as to give privacy to each set of facing benches, though none were closed at the moment. _I’ll bet I’m not supposed to be in here,_ I thought as I started into the car. _Worth a try, though._

Although initially the car appeared empty, I realized that there were belongings in several of the compartments, and a dark-haired tall man sat, his back to me, absorbed in the stack of papers he was reading, his legs reaching across almost to the facing bench. I thought that it would be rude to take a seat without first checking whether I was trespassing in a private car, so I approached him, trying to make enough noise that he would hear me. He looked up from his reading, obviously expecting someone else from his look of bafflement, then dismay. He frowned. “Can I help you?” he asked, somewhat frostily, but in a beautiful baritone.

“Um, yes, I hope,” I responded, unexpectedly caught by his intense pale blue gaze. Why was I suddenly so flustered? “I’m just looking for a seat, and it seems there’s room in here, but I didn’t want to intrude if this is a private car, and –“

He cut off my babbling. “It is a private car,” he said sternly. Then his demeanor changed. “You didn’t sneak in here for an autograph?”

“An autograph?” I repeated, truly perplexed. “No, I just want a place to sit. An autograph? Should I know who you are? Forgive me, but I don’t have time for most of the dreck that passes for entertainment these days.”

The handsome man laughed, truly amused. “Well,” he said, “that put me in my place. With fans mobbing me wherever I go, maybe I’ve gotten an inflated sense of my own importance. Please, sit down.” He held out his hand. “I’m Benedict.”

“Ophelia,” I offered, taking his hand. He shook it firmly, his fingers long and warm.

“A very pretty name,” he murmured, still holding my hand.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll give my mother your compliments.” I slid my hand reluctantly from his and turned to choose an empty compartment.

“Where are you going?” he asked. “You can sit here.” He indicated the bench across the table from his.

“I don’t want to bother you. You were obviously extremely focused on whatever you were reading.” I held my breath, finding myself hoping he would insist that I sit across from him.

“I was learning my lines. But I need a break. Please, sit with me. I was rude before. I apologise. Let me make it up to you.” He gave me a very appealling look, his eyebrows raised in question. In response, I placed my laptop case on the table and my purse on the seat. As I started to lift the overnight case to the overhead compartment, Benedict leaped up and placed it for me, the movement of his shoulders and back looking quite nice under his shirt as he did so. I realized he had placed it out of my reach, and I would need his assistance to retrieve it. _Fine,_ I thought, _I’ll get to watch him take it back down._ I hid the blush at my thoughts by busying myself with setting up my laptop, which I then set to the side, so as not to place it between Benedict and me. Feeling more composed, I removed a stack of journals from my bag, then looked up to find Benedict studying me from across the table.

“What are you reading?” he asked, actually seeming interested.

I sighed. “Medical journals. Unfortunately they have terrible characterisations and the plot development is non-existent.” I gave him a weak smile.

He threw his head back with a genuine laugh. “Everyone’s a critic these days,” he said, smiling.

I smiled back. “If you’re reading a script, I’m sure it’s more entertaining that these.” I indicated the pile of journals. “But I have to at least skim them to see whether there’s anything I should actually read.” I paused, then went on, “but I suppose I can do that later. Why don’t you tell me why you assumed I would recognize you?”

He gave me a considering look. “I’ve been enjoying the anonymity,” he replied. “If I start telling you what I’ve done, you’ll either realize you’ve seen me in something, or you’ll look me up on your laptop there. The wonders of Wifi.” He grimaced. “I get photographed almost daily. You could probably find a picture of me shopping for groceries if you looked hard enough.” He placed his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands, and leaned forward, those beautiful eyes focused on mine. “Why don’t you tell me who you are, Ophelia with the medical journals?”

“I–“ suddenly my mouth was dry, my palms were sweaty, and my cheeks were hot. What was it about this man? I had met, not to mention dated, quite attractive men in the past. I was aware that I appealed to a certain percentage of men, who liked petite brunettes, delicate-looking but with a certain competence or force of will. Where was that force of will now? I struggled to form a coherent sentence. “I’m a doctor. A cardiologist. I’m on my way to a conference in Cardiff.”

Benedict’s expressive eyebrows winged skyward. “A doctor? I imagine you’re rather brilliant, then.”

I hadn’t been aware I could blush harder, but evidently I could. “More hard work than brilliance, I can assure you,” I said. “You know what they call the person who graduates at the bottom of the medical school class, don’t you?”

“No,” he frowned. “What?” I couldn’t believe he was falling for this old joke.

“’Doctor,’” I told him with a smirk. He groaned.

“You weren’t last in your class,” he said authoritatively, “or you wouldn’t tell that joke.”

“No,” I agreed. “Not last. But we’re not gods or something. Now, confess, Benedict. Tell me about your burden of fame.”

He sighed, then told me about his solid background in BBC television and theatre, followed by his “overnight” success as Sherlock Holmes in another BBC production. He spoke about _Frankenstein_ at some length, obviously very excited about the show, which had closed quite recently. He mentioned that he’d been in a couple of films as well, but in small parts, but that he had larger roles coming up. I allowed that I had not seen any of his productions, though I thought I might have seen one of his theatre performances.

“I really don’t watch anything on screens,” I said. “It seems like wasted time. At least going to the theatre is an outing, an event. You dress up, you go out, you usually have dinner with someone, or drinks afterward. It’s social. But television and movies seem so,” I paused. “Solitary.”

He laughed again. “I can see your point, but I have to be glad that few think the way you do, or I’d be out of a job! Now, what’s this conference you’re heading to?”

“Cardiologists telling each other how to be better cardiologists, mostly,” I sighed. “Pretty dry stuff, but necessary. Of course, if you were going to have a heart attack in the next three days, Cardiff would be the place to have it.”

Benedict was laughing as the door at the opposite end of the car from which I had entered opened, and two men stepped in. The taller man had brown hair and a rather pointed nose, while his more heavy-set companion wore a black flat cap. They both looked surprised to see that Benedict had company. The taller man raised one thin eyebrow higher than I thought anatomically possible.

“Your orange, Benedict,” the man said, producing one from his coat pocket and tossing it in one fluid motion. Benedict snatched it out of the air, seemingly without looking at it.

“Thank you, Mark,” he said. “May I present Dr. Ophelia…” he trailed off as he realized that he didn’t know my last name.

“Parkes,” I said, scrambling to my feet and offering my hand.

“She’s a cardiologist,” Benedict added, seemingly in explanation, though I couldn’t imagine why he wanted his friends to know my occupation.

“Lovely to meet you, Dr. Parkes,” Mark said, pressing my hand briefly. “Please sit down. My name is Mark Gatiss, and this is Paul McGuigan.” He indicated the man beside him, and I shook his hand as well. “I understood that you have been quite strenuous in your slimming regimen for _Sherlock_ , Benedict, but I was unaware that you were in need of medical attention.” A smile played around his lips, and I realized that he was teasing.

Benedict blushed, then studied the fruit in his hand. “She’s not my doctor,” he started.

Mark cut him off with a wave. “Ben. _It’s all fine_.” There was an odd emphasis on this phrase that made me suspect it was a quote, or a private joke. Ben grinned. Mark gave Benedict an intense stare. “Just be sure you learn your lines.”

Benedict looked affronted. “No worries, Mark. It’s my job.”

Mark tugged on Paul’s elbow, and they left the way they had come, whispering conspiratorially. The door clicked shut.

“Should I have known who they are, too?” I asked.

“Maybe Mark. Not Paul. He’s the director. Would you like some of this orange?” He had broken the skin and was peeling the fruit efficiently.

I thought about dripping juice and sticky fingers. There was no way to eat an orange demurrely. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” I nodded. He shrugged, and placed an orange segment between his lips. I couldn’t help staring as the fruit passed between his full lips, and he sucked a bit of juice off the tip of his index finger. I felt lightheaded. What was the matter with me?

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m going to find the loo.” I stood up, and Benedict pointed to the door through which Mark and Paul had left, rather than speak with his mouth full. I nodded, and exited the car, my purse clutched in one hand. I stopped just on the other side and took a deep breath. I couldn’t stop thinking about what those lips would feel like sucking on _my_ finger…or my neck. I felt heat rush to my face and between my legs. My nipples were hard. _You’re getting excited by watching a man eat an orange?_ I asked myself. _Yeah, I really am._


	2. Chapter 2

I composed myself and entered the next car. It was a half-full dining car, and I could see the sign for the ladies’ room at the far end. Mark and Paul were seated at a table halfway along the car, deep in conversation. I acknowledged them with a smile on my way to the loo, and received nods in return. On my way back down the car, Mark reached out and touched my arm lightly.

“Dr. Parkes, may I have a word?” He slid further into the booth, making room for me to sit next to him. I sat. Paul slipped silently out of the booth.

“Have I done something wrong, Mr. Gatiss?” I asked anxiously. “I was only looking for a seat, and Benedict assured me I wasn’t disturbing him—“

Mark smiled. “Dr. Parkes, please, call me Mark,” he said. “I only wanted to tell you that I haven’t seen Benedict that relaxed in quite some time. He’s been working very hard, and, well, I probably shouldn’t say, but he hasn’t been very happy lately. He and his girlfriend broke up about 6 months ago, and he’s been in a funk. You’re not a fan, are you?”

This seemed like a non sequitur. “I’m not a fan of anything,” I said, probably sounding puzzled. “I don’t follow any television shows or see many movies. Occasionally I get out to the theatre, but I prefer dance.”

He nodded speculatively. “I think you may be just the grounding force Ben needs right now,” he said. “His star is rising. It’s getting harder for him to meet anyone who isn’t already dazzled by his celebrity status. Not being recognised by you must have been like a splash of water in the face.”

“He did seem surprised,” I allowed. “But I just met him! You sound like you have plans for me, and I must tell you that I won’t be manipulated.”

“Of course not, Doctor,” he said, looking down his nose at me and smiling at the same time. “But I’ll tell you something for free. Benedict is one of those people who is perpetually late. If you make an assignation, don’t worry when he isn’t there. He will be, eventually. I expect he was past due to be born, and the hearse will be late to his funeral. Also, he’s very serious about his work. Possibly as serious as you are.” He steepled his fingers under his chin. “And I get the impression that you’re very serious.”

“What I do means life or death,” I said quietly. “It’s hard to be more serious than that.”

Mark inclined his head in a gesture that appeared to mean both acceptance and dismissal. I stood and hurried back to the exit.  
Benedict was absorbed in his script again when I came back. I sat down quietly and reached for the journals.

“You were gone quite some time,” Benedict said without looking up. His voice was different, more controlled and slightly lower in pitch. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I was speaking with Mark.”

He looked up sharply at that. There was a subtle difference in his appearance that I couldn’t put my finger on. I suddenly realized that he must be in character. _Damn, that’s really good,_ I thought. _He almost looks like a different person._

“Really?” he asked pointedly. “About what?”

“About you, of course,” I retorted. “What else would we have to talk about? He really is a nosy-body. He’s worse than my grandmother.”

Benedict tried to stifle a laugh, but failed. I watched the mask of his character crack and fall away: Benedict was back.

“So what did he tell you?” he asked as I avoided his eyes by directing my gaze to my laptop.

“He seems very concerned about you,” I hedged. I turned and looked him in the eye. “He wants you to be happy. He’s not just a colleague, is he? He’s a friend.”

“Yes,” Benedict allowed. “He is definitely a friend. But what did he say?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” said in a tone that I hoped indicated that I would not be swayed into betraying Mark’s confidence. It was just too embarrassing to tell him that Mark seemed to have decided that I was Benedict’s next girlfriend.

We spent the remainder of the three-hour trip chatting about this and that, and all too soon the announcement came that we would be arriving in Cardiff in ten minutes.

“Where is your conference?” Benedict asked as we started gathering our bags. Mark and Paul entered the car and started tidying up their things, studiously ignoring us.

“The Radisson Blu,” I replied as I packed up my laptop. His eyes widened.

“Nice,” he said, clearly impressed. “We’re at the Sandringham.”

“Well,” I said, “it’s a conference. It’s on the expense account. And they have to make up for it being in Cardiff, rather than, say, Barcelona.” I smiled. “I hope they have a spa – I forgot to check.” I rolled my shoulders. “I could really use a massage.”  


Benedict opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. He looked a little pink. I smiled. _Got you back._

The train began braking as it neared Cardiff Central Station. All four of us reached out for purchase, and the awkward moment passed.

“Ophelia,” Benedict touched my arm. I looked up into his incredible eyes. I suddenly thought about licking along one of those sharp cheekbones and my breath caught. Benedict was still speaking, and I was missing the sense of it.

“Sorry? I—the brake noise, I didn’t hear you.” I fumbled to cover my lack of composure.

“Would you have dinner with me this evening? That is, if you don’t have something already scheduled for your conference.” He looked hopefully down at me.

“No, the conference doesn’t start until tomorrow morning,” I began, and he looked disappointed. “I mean, yes!” I corrected quickly. “Yes, I’d like to have dinner with you. No, the conference doesn’t have any events this evening.” He smiled, relieved.

“I’ll pick you up at seven in the lobby of the Radisson, then, if that’s all right?” How did he make his eyes twinkle like that?

“All right,” I agreed, stunned. The train stopped, and the doors opened. “Um, wait a second,” I said, catching his arm.

He frowned. “Yes?”

“I’m at a bit of a disadvantage. I don’t know your last name.”

He laughed. “I suppose we really ought to exchange mobile numbers as well, in case something comes up.” He fished his phone out of his back jeans pocket. I dictated the spelling of my name, and my mobile number. He called it. My phone rang, and I examined the caller ID screen.

“I don’t think it all fits on the screen.” I grinned, and showed him the mobile screen: “Benedict Cumberba”.

He laughed. “It’s ‘Cumberbatch.’ Sounds like a fart in a bath, I know.”

I smiled again. “I know I would have remembered that name if I’d heard it before. I definitely haven’t. Sorry about that.”

“No, don’t apologise. You’re a breath of fresh air, Ophelia. Let me help you to a cab.”

We exited the train, Mark and Paul following.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benedict and Ophelia's first date.

After unpacking, I took advantage of the hotel Wi-Fi to look Benedict up on the Internet. I found that he had quite a number of devoted fans, some of whom were convinced that they were in love with I was gratified to find many mentions of his intelligence and kindness, and no one seemed to think badly of him in any way. I had been having second thoughts about venturing out in an unfamiliar city with a stranger I had met on a train. I found mention of his breakup, and saw that he had been with Olivia for twelve years. I was glad that Mark had told me that it had been about six months since they had parted, since the public announcement looked to be only last month. I reflected for a moment that I was glad that I didn’t need to announce my social status in the papers.

Despite what Mark had told me, I was waiting in the lobby of my hotel at seven. If this was the one time in his life he was prompt, I didn’t want Benedict to think I had stood him up. I was very glad that Mark had warned me, however, because if he hadn’t, I would have been quite anxious or even angry when Benedict arrived 25 minutes late. He apologised abjectly, and I told him not to worry about it. He appeared relieved, saying, “I try, I really do, but I just can’t seem to get anywhere on time.” He led me out of the lobby, and we claimed a taxi.

“I hope this restaurant is as nice as the concierge says it is,” said Benedict. “If we were in London I’d know loads of places to take you, but I’m a bit out of my element in Cardiff.”

Benedict looked divine in a three-piece herringbone suit that I would have thought pretentious on anyone else, a white shirt, and a knitted black tie. I was glad I had brought my blue silk dress for the conference banquet tomorrow night. It matched my eyes and brought out the auburn highlights in my hair. I had twisted my curls up into a messy chignon, with tendrils escaping to frame my face. It was a look my colleagues seldom saw, a side of me I never hinted at when working. One benefit of the ritzy hotel at which I was staying was that I could get the dress cleaned during the day tomorrow, ready to wear for the banquet that night. I found myself hoping that I would have an excuse to skip the banquet, though I didn’t know what I would wear for a second outing with Benedict. Luckily, being a cardiologist meant I could afford to go shopping tomorrow, if I could only find the time.

After about ten minutes, the taxi pulled up in front of Patagonia, a pleasant-looking restaurant with charming penguins on its front window. We were shown to a table at the back by a fawning maître d’. Benedict held my chair for me, and whispered in my ear as I sat, “Sorry about him – I get a lot of that these days.” I noticed that several of the patrons were craning their necks to look at us.

I soon forgot about the nosy diners as Benedict drew me into conversation. We shared a bottle of wine with our meal, and got a bit giggly for two 30-somethings. He asked me about work, and why I became a doctor. I asked him about acting. “It’s a huge undertaking to become a doctor, but you can be pretty certain of finding a job,” I said. “You can devote your life to acting, and get nowhere. I think it takes tremendous courage to make that commitment,” I told him. “I admire you.”

He looked stunned for a moment. “ _You_ admire _me?_ ”

“You’re following your dream. Not many people have it in them do that,” I gestured with my wineglass. “How many of the people in this restaurant do you think are doing what they want to do?”

He considered that. “You are a wise woman,” he said. “But I still think it’s silly for a doctor to admire an actor.”

“I’m not admiring ‘an actor,’” I said patiently. “I’m admiring _you._ ”

“Oh.” Almost inaudible, it came out on a breath. As if on cue, the waiter appeared at Ben’s elbow, breaking the spell between us. Benedict declined coffee and dessert after a shake of my head, and soon we were in another taxi on the way back to the Radisson Blu. Ben took my hand, running a thumb over my knuckles.

“I thought we could get coffee, or another drink, if you prefer, at the bar in the Radisson,” he said tentatively, almost as a question.

“I’d like that,” I said, “although I do need to be up fairly early tomorrow. These medical conventions may be in nice hotels, but they expect us to keep work hours. They’re actually being nice at this conference: I don’t have to sign in to the conference until 8 am.”

Ben winced. “What time do you usually start work?”

“Office days, the first appointment is at 8, so I need to be ready by then. Procedures start at 7:30.” I laughed. “I should have looked in to that more before I went to medical school, since I’m such a night-owl. I’m usually pretty short on sleep.”

We arrived at the hotel, and entered the lobby. It was fairly crowded, and rather loud. Benedict took my elbow to avoid our being separated.

“Phil! Phil, over here!” I heard to my right, and looked over to see Steven, a cardiologist from Chester, wildly waving a napkin over his head in an effort to catch my attention. He held a tumbler that, if I remembered his preference, contained single-malt Scotch. I waved back, unsure what to do.

“Phil?” Benedict said in my ear. The vibration of his rich voice made me shiver, though his mocking tone wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for.

I sighed, pulling him down so I could speak in his ear. “Yes, ‘Phil.’ Just…don’t, okay? I want you to call me ‘Ophelia.’” I beseeched him with my eyes.

“Of course,” he said seriously, and then kissed my forehead. I still felt the warmth of his lips after they were gone. “We’d better go say hello to your friend.”

“Colleague,” I corrected. Though Steven and I were friendly, I thought of him as an acquaintance. I certainly never spoke to him outside of these conferences.

“Phil!” Steven exclaimed, giving me a one-armed hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You look fabulous! Are you on a date?” His eyebrows waggled suggestively as he took Benedict in. Oh dear, he’s drunk, I thought.

“Yes, actually, I am,” I said hastily. “Steven, Benedict. Benedict, Steven.” They shook hands, murmured pleasantries.

“Say,” Steven said, squinting. “You look familiar. Have I seen you somewhere?” I held my breath. I didn’t want to be stuck here while Ben and Steven discussed Ben’s career, nor did I need Steven spreading the information that I was dating an actor around the convention.

“I doubt it,” Benedict said, scratching a spot in front of his left ear with his right hand. “I don’t meet many cardiologists.”

Steven shrugged. “Hey, Phil, I don’t want to keep you. Have a nice night!” He leered at me, which I ignored.

“See you tomorrow, Steven,” I said. “Remember, the conference starts at 8.” I took Benedict’s hand and headed to the mezzanine bar area.

Once we were seated, coffees ordered, I took both of Benedict’s hands in mine on the tabletop. “Thank you,” I said. “How did you know exactly the right thing to say?”

“Well,” he smiled, “I figured you didn’t really want to get into a conversation with him, so I tried to be as uninteresting to him as possible.”

“I don’t think I could ever find you ‘uninteresting,’” I heard my voice say, and mentally kicked myself. _I sound like a love struck teenager!_

“I’ll take that as the highest of compliments.” Benedict inclined his head. “I find you…intriguing. How can such a successful, intelligent, and beautiful woman be unattached? That is, unless you wish to be,” he hastily added. He looked suddenly uncomfortable, and I realized that I wasn’t the only one on unfamiliar ground. I decided to take his question at face value.

I shrugged. “Thank you, but most men find me intimidating,” I said as our coffees arrived. I kept my eyes on the business of adding cream to my cup.

“Intimidating?” he echoed incredulously. “Why would men find you intimidating?”

“Well, I’m successful, I’m more educated and make more money than most of the men I meet, I work long hours, and my career is very important to me. I’m not just going to give it up to get married and raise a family, though I’d like to have those things someday. I don’t get out much to meet new people, and at work I’m “Phil.” You know, one of the guys.” I gave him a wan smile, aware that I had just rattled off a list of reasons why I was an unsuitable match to my date, when I hoped desperately to see again.

“It sounds to me like you need either a man who is willing to be your support, and fill the traditional role of the “wife,” if you will, or a man as driven as you are.” He leaned forward and looked me in the eye. “You don’t strike me as the sort of person who wants a wife. I think you want a partner as focused and successful as you are. An equal. A match.”

I was dimly aware that my mouth was hanging open, and that Benedict was waiting for me to speak. Always eager to avoid painful introspection, I had never thought about what my ideal relationship would look like, nor why I hadn’t found it. I simply went on working, pushing my loneliness into a corner of my mind and locking it away. That a man I had just met today could pinpoint so precisely the needs of my heart took away my power of speech. That the same man could possibly be the match of whom he spoke stole my breath. I couldn’t think, paralysed by the shock of self-discovery. I needed space, air, silence. I leapt to my feet.

“My god, it’s late,” I stammered, wildly looking about for the direction of the exit. “I’ve had a lovely time, Benedict, but I’ve got to go.” I snatched up my purse and darted toward the door like a fleeing gazelle.

“Ophelia, wait!” I heard Ben’s resonant voice behind me as I ducked and weaved around the milling patrons at the bar. The confusion in his voice pained me, but I had to get back to my room, to solitude, so I could think. As the elevator doors closed, I thought I heard his voice once more: “Ophelia!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia soul-searches, a late-night phone conversation, a date is made.

I paced my room, hands in my hair. My mobile sat on the bed, accusingly silent. What had I done? I finally met an interesting, articulate, and sexy man, and I had probably left him thinking I was a psycho. As I glanced in the mirror, I noted that I certainly looked like one now, with my makeup smeared and my hair a mess. I hoped that the lack of a phone call signified that Ben was giving me some space to think rather than distancing himself from an incomprehensible idiot.

The truths Benedict had so blithely presented to me were reverberating in my head. I craved a partner, and equal, but where was I to find one? I spent so much time on my career that I never met anyone new. I refused to date anyone at work, since that was a recipe for disaster, and I think that by now most of them thought I was a lesbian, since I never mentioned a boyfriend or brought a date to the department Christmas party. When I did go out, usually on blind dates or to dinner parties where my friends played matchmaker, I met men who didn’t know what to make of such a driven professional woman. I realized that I had given up hope of ever finding a man with whom I could live life as an equal, and I didn’t want anything less. The fact that I was also giving up on having children was the most painful part of it, the part I chose not to think about if at all possible. Now I had met a man who, while not in my field at all, was successful, committed to his work, and gorgeous as well. I only hoped that I hadn’t scared him off completely.

I took a deep breath and picked up my mobile. I glanced at the clock. Great – it was 1 am. I had to get up by 6:30. I was accustomed to running on little sleep, but I hoped that texting Benedict in the middle of the night wasn’t adding insult to injury.

\--I’m terribly sorry I ended our date so badly. Please give me a chance to explain. Dinner tomorrow at 7? Ophelia--

 _So much for the banquet,_ I thought as I hit SEND. _And when will I get out shopping for a dress? I’ll have to look at the agenda and see what I can skip._

I tossed the mobile back on the bed and headed into the loo to start getting ready for bed. I was rinsing my face when I heard my mobile ring – not the chime that meant I had a text message. I dried my face hurriedly as I hurried to retrieve my mobile.

“Apology and invitation accepted,” came Benedict’s lovely voice. “But I’d rather not wait that long for some explanations. I know you have to be up in a few hours, but I’ll admit that if you don’t talk to me now, I’ll be wondering all day what I did wrong.”

I sighed. “It’s all right—it’s all my fault. You didn’t do anything wrong,” I started. “I just…it’s that you…oh, I feel like an idiot.”

“I know we’ve only just met, but I feel certain that you are not an idiot,” Benedict returned patiently. “Now, take a deep, calming breath, relax, and tell me what’s got you so bothered.”

I did as he instructed, taking in a slow, deep breath, and letting it out. “Okay. Remember what you said about my needing an equal partner in a relationship?”

“Yes,” he drew the word out, encouraging me to keep going.

“Well, I had never realized that before. I mean, I had never stopped and thought about what I wanted, what I was looking for. I only knew that I hadn’t found it, and it seemed unlikely that I _would_ find it, and I—I gave up. I resigned myself to being alone. I suppose I considered myself married to my work.” Benedict made a noise on the other end of the line. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he cleared his throat several times. “Please continue.”

“And then, I met you today—yesterday—and you’re successful and driven and sexy and I can’t believe I’m saying this to you!” I buried my face in my hands, as though I could hide from him that way despite the fact that he already couldn’t see me.

“You think I’m sexy?” he purred, and I could feel his words in my ear as though his lips were there instead of a plastic mobile.

“God, yes,” escaped from my mouth on a gasp before I could stop myself.

“Well, then, I’ll try to look my best for our next date. Where are we meeting?”

“I’ll pick you up this time. I’ll actually be skipping out on the conference banquet, so meeting in the lobby here is probably a bad idea.” I was glad that he hadn’t continued teasing me for my indiscretion, and I tried to regain my composure.

“Are you sure that’s okay? They won’t kick you out of the conference, or something?” Ben sounded concerned that I was breaking the rules in order to see him.

“It’s fine. I paid for it—well, my practice did, but that’s really the only downside. I’m sure that the food and the company will be much better where I’m going.”

“All right, then. I just didn’t want you to get in trouble on my account.”

“I think I’m more likely to run afoul of your friend Mark for distracting you,” I countered.

“Don’t worry about Mark,” Benedict said, “I’ll be just fine tomorrow, now that I know you want to see me again.”

“I’m a little frightened by how much I want to see you again,” I confessed.

“Just promise you won’t bolt,” he said seriously. “We can talk about anything. I mean it. I don’t want to lose the chance to get to know you over a misunderstanding, or embarrassment, all right?”

“Alright. I promise I won’t leap up and run away from you again, no matter how wonderful you are.” He laughed, and I was glad to be able to end the call on a lighter note. “We’d both better try to get some sleep now.” I didn’t want to hang up, but it was going to be a long day tomorrow, mostly sitting and listening to lecturers in darkened rooms while staring at Power Point presentations. I foresaw a lot of coffee in my future.

“Unfortunately, yes, we should,” Ben sighed. “I look forward to seeing you later. I’ll try to be more on time.”

“Have a good day, and I’ll see you in the lobby of the Sandringham at 7.” _More like 7:30,_ I thought, _no matter what you say._ “Good night, sweet dreams.”

“If I dream of you, they will be,” his voice dropped at least an octave and took a wicked turn. “Good night, sweet Ophelia.”

It was a good thing that he had rung off immediately after delivering that line, because I was speechless again. No one who knew me would have thought it possible that I’d be rendered speechless, let alone twice in one day.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia goes shopping for her second date with Benedict, and she plans to be ready for anything.

The ring of my wakeup call at 6:30 felt like an ice pick in the head. I was disoriented, as I had been dreaming when the phone rang. I struggled to remember the few disjointed fragments that remained, but was left only with the vague but lovely impression that I had dreamed of Benedict. As I brushed my teeth, I made a mental list of everything I had to do before our date tonight. I needed a dress, and probably shoes as well. I winced as I thought about my boring bras and knickers – should I be thinking about them at all? This was our second date, and the first one hadn’t ended well at all. I decided that I would purchase new lingerie for my own self-confidence, not that Ben would actually see them. Well, not tonight, anyway. Most importantly, I needed to find some time to sneak out of the conference to shop, and I needed to speak to the concierge for recommendations, both for shopping and for a restaurant. Damn, I thought, and I need to make a reservation somewhere nice, without the help of a famous name to ensure a table with no advance notice.

I showered and dressed, and bolstered by a terrible cup of coffee made in the little in-room coffeemaker while I was in the shower, I checked in to the conference on time. I wasn’t particularly hungry, with my mind spinning as it was, but I made myself take some fruit off the breakfast buffet.

“Good morning, Phil!” I heard behind me in a teasing tone. I turned to find Steven at my elbow. “You made it down on time after all. I would have bet you’d decided to sleep in, wink, wink.” I could practically hear the air-quotes, though his hands were full of dishes.

I sighed. “Good morning, Steven, did you sleep well?” I decided that I wasn’t going to rise to the bait. I didn’t need to explain my activities to him. “Did your wife come with you for this conference?”

Steven dropped the act, realizing I wasn’t going to play along. “No, she didn’t want to come to Cardiff for some reason,” he replied, taking a muffin from the buffet. “She’s waiting for there to be a conference in Tenerife.”

“Well, send her my best,” I returned as I headed for a seat.

As I ate my fruit and drank more coffee, I looked through the day’s agenda. I noticed that the lecture just before lunch was one that I had heard before. This was the best possible arrangement: with the hour of the lecture and the ninety minutes allotted to lunch, I would have two and a half hours for shopping, without missing anything crucial. I actually wished Steven’s wife had come; I would have taken her with me to have her advise me on my clothing choices.

Somehow I made it through three hours of lectures without calling attention to myself by snoring. At eleven, I went out to the concierge desk for suggestions on shopping and restaurants. Armed with a map and recommendations, I headed for a cab. Once the cab pulled into traffic, I rang Barocco. Luckily, Sunday is not one of the busiest nights for restaurants, and I was able to secure a reservation for two at eight. I doubted that, despite his best intentions, Ben would be ready before seven thirty again.

Praying that I could find everything I needed in one place in the allotted time, I entered St David’s Dewi Sant, a rather new-looking shopping centre. Consulting the directory, I found several high-end fashion choices. All I wanted was a little black dress – surely that shouldn’t be so hard to find. I found a lovely dress at the second shop I tried: a short sleeveless black sheath with a long-sleeved lace overdress. It was a shorter skirt than I usually wore, but it looked good, and I decided to go with it. I had almost two hours left to find hose (was this dress long enough for a suspender belt?), shoes, and lingerie. I splurged on lovely black heels at Kurt Geiger (there’s no such thing as too many pairs of black heels). Then I braced myself and stepped into Leia. A shop girl descended on me like a hawk on a mouse, but for once I was grateful for the aggressive sales tactics. As soon as I showed her the dress and the shoes, and told her I needed a strapless black bra coordinated set and nude hose, I found myself ensconced in a fitting room, waiting for my choices to be delivered.

I was impressed by the shop girl’s speed and taste: all three of the lingerie sets she presented were classy, yet sexy. As it turned out, the dress was too short for thigh-high stockings, which was something of a disappointment, as I found that wearing stockings with a suspender belt always made me feel a bit naughty, like I had a secret. I settled for the sheer nude hose, and decided that the tiny little thong made up for the loss of the suspender belt on the naughty scale.

Feeling naughtier still, I ducked into Boots and bought a packet of prophylactics. I told myself that it wouldn’t do to be caught without, even if I wasn’t planning on needing them tonight.

Bundling all my purchases into two bags, I headed toward the shopping centre exit to take a taxi back to the hotel. As I passed by That’s Entertainment, a display in the front window caught my eye: a “Filmed in Cardiff” theme dominated the window display, and in the middle was the DVD of _Sherlock._ On a whim, I darted in and bought a copy, figuring I would watch it on my laptop on the train ride back to London.

I made it back to the Radisson Blu with enough time to dash to my room, wash my new lingerie and hose in the sink with shampoo, and hang them to dry. I hung up the dress and removed all the tags from it and the shoes. I was even able to snag a turkey wrap and some fresh veggies before they closed the lunch buffet. Today was looking up. I hoped that my luck would continue tonight.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benedict and Ophelia's second date. Warning! Contains sticky toffee pudding.

It was 5 minutes before 7, and I was still in my hotel room, putting the finishing touches on my makeup with The B-52s blasting out of my portable iPod speakers, when my mobile rang. My heart leaped into my throat when I saw that it was Benedict calling: was he going to cancel our date? Had he decided that I was too crazy after all? I pressed a button to answer while still fumbling to turn off the music.

“Hello, Ophelia? Can you hear me? Where are you?” Benedict practically had to shout over “Love Shack.” I yanked the speaker plug out of the iPod.

“Ben, hi! What’s up? Everything okay?” I tried to sound unconcerned.

“Yes, fine. I just wanted to let you know that I’m running a little late again. I know I said I’d be on time this evening, and I tried, but filming ran over, and the traffic—“

“It’s okay, Ben. I’m still at the hotel. Will half past seven be all right? Our reservation is for eight, but I don’t think it’s too far.”

“Yes, half past would be great. Thank you. I’m glad you’re not upset.” He sounded relieved.

“Mark warned me that you’re habitually tardy,” I teased. “Part of the package.”

“I’m not sure whether to be angry with him for telling you that, or grateful,” he mused.

“Be grateful. I’ll see you at half past. Be ready!”

“Yes, Doctor,” he said teasingly, and rang off.

I spent the extra fifteen minutes making sure that my hair and makeup were perfect. The dress hugged my curves and showed off my legs to good advantage. I knew the sexy lingerie was underneath, and just the thought of the possibility that Benedict might see the skimpy little black bra and thong made my heart beat faster.

At quarter past seven, I passed through the lobby of the Radisson Blu. Heads turned as I walked by, bolstering my confidence that Benedict would be pleased by my appearance. A very short taxi ride brought me to the Sandringham, and I asked the driver to wait. Just as I entered the lobby, the elevator opened, and Benedict stepped out, dressed in a three-piece beige suit with a white check, and a white shirt, open at the neck. His dark curls looked perfect. He scanned the lobby, and as his eyes lit on me, he faltered, almost tripping. He recovered his composure and walked over, taking both my hands in his.

“Ophelia, you look stunning. I am quite literally stunned.” He lifted my right hand to his lips and kissed it.

“Thank you,” I said. “You look very fine yourself.” Time seemed to stand still as I gazed into his pale blue eyes. “Um, I held the taxi.”

“Then, by all means, let’s go.” He kissed my hand again, and kept it as we headed out the door.

When we arrived at Barocco, we were shown to the first floor, where we were seated next to each other in a sumptuous oversized gold-upholstered booth. I was pleased with how cozy this seemed, and I wanted to remember to thank the concierge for the suggestion.

Once we had ordered, Benedict turned to me, a devilish smile on his lips. “Is this what you were planning to wear to your conference banquet this evening? I imagine you’d have been rather popular.”

I blushed. “No, I would have worn the blue dress I wore last evening. I didn’t want to wear it again, so I went shopping on my lunch break.” There was no need for him to know that I had also skipped out on part of the conference for this.

“So, you chose this dress specifically for our date?” He was playing with a curl of my hair, his fingers occasionally brushing against my shoulder through the lace of my dress. It was very distracting. All I could manage was a nod. “I like it very much,” he said softly, his eyes intently on mine.

I was saved from my paralysis by the arrival of our drinks. I gratefully took a sip of wine that turned into more of a gulp. _I am a 32-year-old cardiologist. Why does my brain turn into pudding when this man looks at me?_

“I’ve noticed that you make bold fashion choices yourself,” I said, looking at him over my wineglass. “Many men would be afraid to stray from the standard dark suit.”

“I’ve only recently started to appreciate fashion,” he said. “I owe a lot to Martin, he’s been teaching me a lot about quality gear, and of course every time I do a fashion shoot, I pick up some pointers. So you like this suit?”

“I do,” I said, “though I think I’m a bit of a traditionalist. I think it looks a little unfinished without the tie, though I’m sure it’s more comfortable that way. Of course, if I’m going to wear hose and heels, I can’t have too much sympathy for a man’s discomfort from wearing a tie.” I smiled, and in a bold move I hadn’t been entirely aware I was going to make, I reached out and stroked the base of his throat through the open collar. “I’m sure there are certain…advantages to skipping the tie.”

He swallowed visibly, and his lips parted. I could see his pulse beating rapidly in his throat, and his pupils dilating. Evidently I wasn’t the only thunderstruck party at this table. I suddenly wanted to skip dinner altogether, take Benedict back to my hotel room, and see what other physiologic signs of arousal I could produce in him.

“How long will you be in Cardiff?” he asked in a husky voice.

“The conference ends at noon on Tuesday, and I’ll take the train back to London in the afternoon.”

“Ah,” he said. “And then back to work?”

“Yes. How long will you be here?” I knew he lived in London, but location shoots could take months, depending on the project.

“This episode should be done filming within four weeks, but of course we don’t film every day. I’ll be returning home when I can. Would it be too forward of me to ask to see you when I’m in London?” He cupped my face and ran a thumb along my cheekbone.

“I think that could be arranged,” I answered, leaning into his hand. “Although I am on call some nights. If there’s an emergency, I’d have to go immediately.”

“I understand,” he smiled, and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners made my stomach flutter. “You’re needed. As much of a fuss as people make over me at times, I’m never needed like that. Can you imagine? “We need an actor over here, STAT! Someone with comedic timing! It’s an emergency!”” His voice had changed completely, and I recognized his uncanny impression of Steven Spielberg. I was still giggling when our food was served, a steak for Benedict and a pasta dish for me.

Benedict kept up a steady chatter through the meal, regaling me with anecdotes about people famous enough that even I’d heard of them. When he impersonated Alan Rickman, I nearly snorted wine out my nose. I noticed that he touched his lips a lot, and I saw that gesture he had made the previous evening, reaching a hand across his face to scratch in front of the opposite ear. I suddenly realized that he was trying very hard to impress me.

“Benedict,” I said, scooping up a forkful of the sticky toffee pudding I had agreed to share. “Why are you so nervous?”

He froze, his fork halfway to his beautiful lips. I reached out with a napkin just in time to intercept the glob of toffee that would have landed on his trousers. He started, and then ate the pudding as I watched his lips close around the fork. When he had swallowed, he said, “I should have known you were good at reading people.” He looked down at his hands, twisting a napkin in his lap. “I’m nervous because…” He paused, still looking down. “I really like you, and I’m sure I’m not smart enough for you.”

“Benedict,” I said firmly, reaching out and touching his chin lightly, urging him to look at me. “That is the only thing you have said since we met that is in the least bit silly. If I wanted to talk shop, I’d be at the banquet. I’d rather spend time with you. You’ve already shown me that you are both well-educated and articulate. Now, if you would please dispense with the idea that I’m in some way intellectually superior to you, we can enjoy the rest of our evening.”

Still somewhat embarrassed, Benedict favoured me with a crooked smile, then leaned in and kissed me gently on the lips. His lips were warm on mine, and although the kiss was chaste enough for a public place, it held the promise of more to come. “The rest of our evening?” he asked, his lips only millimetres from mine.

“Yes,” I breathed. My eyes flicked up to his, so close that I could see a spot of brown in the iris of his right eye, an imperfection that somehow only made him even more appealing. “You sounded so impressed by the Radisson Blu that I thought perhaps you’d like to see my room.” We both knew what I was proposing, of course. It just sounded classier than, “Want to come back to my place and shag me through the mattress?”

Benedict leaned back, a sexy, wicked grin lighting up his gorgeous face. “I would love to see your room,” he said. “I think we’d better get the bill.” He signaled for the waitress, who appeared instantly at his elbow. She gave me a sullen look, confirming my twin suspicions that she was a fan of Benedict’s, and that she had been watching us. I hoped that a large enough tip would make her decide not to spread rumours on the Internet. I was beginning to understand that some of Benedict’s fans wouldn’t be happy for him when he found a new girlfriend (whether that would turn out to be me or someone else), because as long as he was unattached, they could entertain the fantasy that he might fancy them, if only they would meet under the right circumstances.

As soon as we got into a taxi, Benedict was kissing me, his hands in my hair, his lips parted, his tongue gently probing for mine. “Benedict!” I whispered when I managed, reluctantly, to break free. “We’re in a taxi!”

“All right, I’ll wait,” he sighed. “But I can’t be responsible for what happens if we’re alone in the lift.” He gave me another evil grin.

I groaned. I kept telling myself that I hadn’t planned to have sex with Benedict tonight, but I had certainly done everything as if I had. Now here we were, on the way back to my hotel room. What was I getting myself into?

“Benedict, I—I never do this,” I started.

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “We don’t have to, if you’re uncomfortable.” He looked genuinely concerned, not angry at being led on.

“No!” I said quickly. “I mean—I’m not changing my mind, I just want you to know that, well…I hope this isn’t a one-night stand, or a holiday romance. I want to see you when you come back to London.”

“Some holiday,” he joked, “seeing as we’re both working.” He kissed me again, this time tenderly but thoroughly. “This is not a one-night stand. I’m going to work very hard at taking down that wall you’ve built around yourself, Ophelia. I’m going to get in.” He kissed me again. My head was reeling. He had done it again: seen me more clearly than I saw myself. _I could fall in love with this man,_ I thought, and I didn’t know whether to run or to throw myself into his arms. Being in a taxi made the choice to stay where I was a lot easier, and the moment of panic had passed when we pulled up to the Radisson Blu a minute later.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben and Ophelia get back to her hotel room. Guess what happens next?
> 
> NOT safe for work.

We weren’t alone in the lift, although luckily I didn’t see anyone from the conference on our way through the lobby. I really didn’t want to spend time explaining to anyone why I had skipped the banquet. Why was my room at the far end of the hall?

As soon as the door shut behind us, Benedict pushed me up against the wall, his hands everywhere, and his mouth on mine. He pressed a knee between my thighs as he kissed along my neck and whispered in my ear, “I want you!”

I gasped, all coherent thoughts gone. My heart pounded, and I pressed into him, wanting to eliminate any space between us. I moved my hands to the front of his jacket, trying to slide it from his shoulders. “Too much clothing,” I managed to say.

“Too right,” he said as the jacket hit the floor. We kicked off our shoes. Our fingers met as we both went for his vest buttons, and he captured my hands in his and kissed me again with a laugh that turned into a moan. Somehow he managed to undo his vest and shirt buttons by the time he let me up for air, and the sight of him half undressed was so arousing that I found myself on my knees, unfastening his belt. “Ophelia,” he said, once again stopping my hands. “Let’s move to the bed.” He pulled me back to my feet, holding me with my arms trapped against his toned, bare chest, and turned toward the bed behind him. “Lift your legs,” he instructed me, and placed me on the bed, on my knees. “Now,” he murmured in my ear, “how does this dress come off?”

“Buttons,” I answered. “Tiny, tiny buttons.” I reached behind my neck and undid the single button at the top of the keyhole back, then reached behind my lower back for the rest.

He sighed. “I love the dress, but that’s—oh.” His complaint about the complexity of the fasteners was cut off when I pulled the dress off over my head and let it fall to the floor. While he was staring, I took the opportunity to push the vest and shirt off his shoulders. I reached again for his belt, and he slid his hands around my waist and pulled me to him again.

“Are you trying to keep me from undressing you?” I whispered against his full lips, now pink and moist from kissing me.

“No,” he breathed, brushing his sexy Cupid’s bow against my mouth. “I just can’t keep my hands off of you.” He took a step back and unbuckled his belt, leaving it in the belt loops as he undid his trousers and let them fall, stepping out of them and pushing them aside. He quickly removed his socks. He returned to me in light blue briefs that did nothing to conceal his arousal. “Let’s get you out of those hose, shall we?”

I stood up on the bed before Ben, and he buried his face in my belly as he slid the hose down, his hands following the curve of my arse. When the hose passed below my knees, I carefully lifted one foot, then the other, so he could remove them. Ben embraced me, pulling me forward off the bed and into his arms. I slid down along the length of him, pressing against his erection, and then he toppled us backward to land on the bed. He took most of his weight on his arms to either side of me, but his hips ground into mine as he kissed me, all restraint gone. My arms wound around him, caressing his back, tangling in his curls, pulling him closer to me. I wanted to feel his weight on me, feel him surrounding me.

Still kissing me, he drew one hand slowly up the length of my body, from my thigh to my breast. He nibbled down my throat, finding the hollow over one collarbone and making me draw in a sharp breath as the sensation of his tongue there arrowed straight to my groin. “This is lovely,” he murmured against my skin as he stroked my nipple through the thin fabric of the bra. “But it needs to come off.”

“Yes,” I breathed, and he lifted himself enough to allow his hands room to reach the back fastening of the bra. He lifted it away with a sort of reverence, letting it fall to join the rest of our clothes on the floor as he moaned his appreciation for the sight before him.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, and set to exploring my breasts with his hands and his mouth. I writhed beneath him, gasping his name and clutching at his hair. I wrapped one leg around his thighs to draw him closer, and I could feel his breath catch as his need increased. He pulled back, dropping to his knees beside the bed and reaching up for my knickers, looking to me for permission. I lifted my hips, and then I was naked before him.

“Now, you,” I said, leaning on one elbow and capturing his eyes with mine. “I want to see you naked.”

He smiled and stood, sliding his last remaining clothing off as he did so, ending up standing before me, completely nude.

“Now, turn around,” I commanded, demonstrating what I wanted with a twirl of one finger. “Let me see you.”

One eyebrow winged high at me, but he complied, turning around in a slow circle.

“Mmm, yes, that’ll do,” I said. “Now get your mad arse over here, sexy, and show me what you can do with that gorgeous body.”

Benedict grinned, then pounced. He silenced my playful shriek with kisses and caresses, his cock hard against my belly. “God, Ophelia, I want you now,” he whispered hard in my ear. “I want you to ride me, watch you above me. Will you, please?” With that, he rolled us across the bed, ending with me on top, straddling his cock.

“Ben, I—yes, but—“ I was incoherent with lust, but I still wasn’t stupid. “We need a condom,” I managed.

“Of course,” he answered, breathing hard. “I have one in my wallet, if you don’t have any.”

“Planning ahead, were you?” I smirked at him.

He looked abashed. “Better safe than sorry, love.”

“I have some,” I said, leaning to reach the table by the bed. “I…thought the same thing.” I felt my cheeks burning and wondered why I would blush now. I fumbled a packet out of the box, got it open, and came up on my knees to unroll the condom onto Ben’s straining erection. “Ready?” I teased him, knowing that every second’s delay inflamed him more.

“Yes,” he replied, “but are you?” His strong hands were suddenly about my waist, and he pulled me forward, up his body until I was straddling his face. Before I could even react, he plunged his mouth up into me, holding me firmly down against him and finding my clit with his tongue. I gasped, my back arching, my arms searching for purchase. There was nothing close enough to hold onto, and I fell forward, my hands on the bed, my knees by Ben’s ears. His graceful fingers locked onto my thighs like iron, allowing me no movement, no escape, as his tongue continued its frenzied dance on my clit. I could feel my climax rapidly approaching, and I mewed and moaned and called out his name. Suddenly he changed his grip on me; he wrapped his left arm around my waist, his hand firmly grasping my right buttock, freeing his right hand to plunge two fingers inside me. He moaned against my clit, and the vibration of his deep, rich, velvety voice sent me over the edge into ecstasy, screaming, clenching around his fingers. As my orgasm abated, his tongue slowed, gently kissing between my legs as he did my mouth.

I felt Ben’s fingers slide out of me, and his hands reclaimed my hips. He lifted me off his face as I pushed up off the bed, and he slid me down his body until I felt his cock against my arse. “Now you’re ready,” he said in that glorious voice, husky and low.

“Yes,” I panted, barely able to speak. I reached down as I straightened up on my knees, bringing his latex-wrapped cock to my opening and guiding him in. As I sank slowly down onto him, he groaned, a long, low rumble that I felt as much as heard. His eyes closed as his neck arched and his lips parted. “Gorgeous,” escaped from my lips as I beheld his perfect beauty in a moment of pleasure. Once I had the full length of his cock inside me, I held still until he opened his eyes, then squeezed firmly and deliberately with the muscles surrounding him. His eyes widened, and his breath escaped in a gasp. I began to move slowly, my hands moving over my body as he watched, and squeezing him on the downstroke, relaxing on the upstroke.

“Ophelia,” he choked out. “What are you—how—oh, god.” He gave up trying to speak and went back to trying to breathe. His hands traced up my thighs, and I took them with mine, laced our fingers together, and pushed his elbows to the bed. Using his arms as support to push against, I began moving faster, still squeezing his cock rhythmically, and his hips began to move with mine, meeting me halfway and increasing the speed and force with which we came together. His eyes were locked intently on mine, and a grunt was forced from his lips with each impact. His leonine features were flushed with passion and effort, and I had never seen a sexier or more beautiful man. “Kiss me,” he could barely form the words, and I knew he was close to orgasm. I leaned forward, still supported on his hands, muscles straining. When our lips met and my breasts touched his chest, he wrapped his arms around me tightly, kissed me passionately, sloppy and open-mouthed, and pumped his hips violently up into me once, twice, and on the third time, he came, bellowing into my mouth, hips straining up as if he would pass through me, arms crushing the breath from me. He collapsed, buttocks hitting the bed, one arm flopping down, the other still wrapped around my waist. He kissed me again, gently but thoroughly, and then went completely still but for his eyes roving over my face.

I brushed a damp curl from his forehead, and then placed a kiss there. “Not bad for a first go,” I said, grinning. “What did you think?”

He groaned, bringing his free hand up to cup my face. “I think you’re going to be the death of me,” he said. “I won’t want to do anything but make love to you, and I’ll starve to death.” He brought my face down to his and kissed me tenderly on the lips. “That was—I don’t have any words for that.” He favoured me with one of his devastating crooked smiles. “But I do know that I want to do it again, as soon as possible.”

“As much as I agree, I still have to get up early tomorrow,” I said with regret. My fingers played over his face. I traced his delicious lips with one finger. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about these lines.”  
He captured my finger with his mouth, drawing it in and sucking gently until my breath caught and my eyes closed. “Does that remind you of an orange?” he teased.

“You noticed?” It was too late to be embarrassed now.

“I did indeed. That’s how I knew I had a chance with you, Dr Parkes.” He waved his eyebrows comically up and down and twirled an imaginary moustache. “But you asked about the lip lines. They showed up after I spent some months in South Africa filming To the Ends of the Earth. They’re sun damage. I try to be more careful now. Luckily, my lips are still fully functional.” He kissed me again. “My turn. Tell me about your tattoo,” he said as we sat up so that Ben could dispose of the used condom.

I sighed. “I kind of wish I hadn’t gotten it,” I confessed. “I think it's silly to have one, now.” I had a caduceus tattooed on my right shoulder blade, about 8 centimetres high. Thinking back on our lovemaking, I wasn’t even certain when he had seen it. “I got it when I graduated from medical school. A lot of us did, and that’s probably why I went along with it. At least it’s somewhere most people never see it.”

“I like it. It’s sexy.” Benedict kissed my back right on the tattoo. “You’re sexy,” he added, kissing higher. “Very sexy,” he said as he reached my throat, and then applied himself to the task of making me incoherent by kissing, licking, and biting my neck until I was crazy with need again.

Who needs sleep? I thought as Ben lowered me to the bed, once again on my back beneath him. I slid my hands down his back to cup his magnificent arse. “How can a man as thin as you have such a squeezable bum?” I asked him, demonstrating with a pinch.

He started, and then chuckled. “I always worry that it looks a bit big on film,” he said with a quirk of his lips. “You don’t think so?”

“On film?” I repeated. “You really need to give me a viewing list. And, no, I don’t think it’s too big. It’s glorious. I can’t keep my hands off it, or the rest of you, for that matter.” I traced my hands back up over his trim hips, his flat belly, his almost hairless and well-defined chest, to the back of his neck, pulling his face down for another scorching kiss. By the time our lips parted, he was fully erect again and grinding his hips into me so hard it was almost painful. It would have taken only a tilt of my hips to allow him to slide inside me again, and it took all of my will power not to do it without a condom. “Benedict,” I gasped, “condom!”

Ben took an enormous breath in, closing his eyes, and then let it out, regaining some measure of self-control. “Right,” he said, rolling off me to reach the packets scattered on the bedside table. He put one on, sitting on the side of the bed, and then stood up, coming to stand at the side of the bed. As I looked a question at him, he reached over and hooked one arm around my left knee, dragging me across the bed toward him. I ended up with my heel on his shoulder, my arse several inches off the bed, his hands gripping my hips.

“Ben, what are you—“ my question was cut off with a gasp when Benedict leaned forward slightly and drove his cock into me until his hips met the back of my thighs. My weight was mainly on the back of my shoulders, and the blood rushing to my head made every sensation more vivid. I wrapped my right leg around his waist to pull him in, and he began to move, pounding into me relentlessly, eyes bright, lips parted. In this position, he was in complete control, and all I could do was hold onto the bedclothes to avoid being pushed away with each thrust. The slap of our bodies meeting seemed loud, but I still heard him when he murmured, “So beautiful.”

“Come down here,” I urged. “Let me touch you.” He leaned further forward, kneeling on the bed and letting my lower back touch down. He kept my left leg high, my knee caught by his elbow. This opened me wide for him, and I brought my other leg high as well, resting my heel in the hollow at the small of his back. He continued thrusting at the fast pace he had set from the beginning, driving deeply into me. I wound my arms around him, pulling him to me and whispering encouragement in his ear. On the next thrust, I tightened my muscles around him and squeezed his cock, wringing a moan of pleasure from his lips. I wanted this, just this, forever. I wanted to ruin him for any other woman. I wanted him to need me, just me.

“Ophelia,” he whispered, his eyes intense. “Sweet Ophelia.” His lips found mine again in a deep kiss, and his hips gained speed, slamming into me still harder. I held on to him with all my strength as I felt my climax approaching. Ben hitched my leg a little higher, changing the angle of my hips slightly, and I was undone. I came, clenching around his cock, scratching my nails down his back, shouting out his name over and over. With a wordless cry, he joined me, his cock pulsing inside me, his head thrown back, eyes closed. We collapsed in a heap, our bones turned to jelly.

“My god, Ophelia, what you do to me,” Benedict breathed in my ear a few moments later.

I hummed a happy sound. “Likewise, Mr Cumberbatch,” I purred, stroking his back, then reaching further down to pinch his bum. He gave a surprised “ooh!” and then retaliated by tickling my ribs. Giggling madly, I managed to reach a pillow and began pummeling him with it. I gained the upper hand as he suddenly realized he had another messy condom to deal with. Once he disposed of it, however, he reminded me that he had the size advantage by simply overpowering me and pinning me to the bed, my arms above my head. He grinned wickedly. “To the victor belong the spoils,” he quoted, and then kissed me. I melted into the kiss, and when he relaxed his hold on my arms so he could embrace me, I tickled him back. He pinned me back down, and still laughing, kissed me again.

“We are evenly matched, aren’t we?” he said with a smile.

“It would seem so,” I replied. I relaxed into his arms, snuggling close. “Do I even want to know what time it is?”

He glanced over at the clock, and then winced. “No, I don’t think you do. It’s quarter past one.”

“Shit,” I said, followed by, “Sorry.” He smiled fondly at me, showing me that he thought apologising for profanity was cute, especially since we were both naked and post-coital. “The conference starts at 8:30 again. Luckily there’s no afternoon session though. I’ll be able to catch a nap. I picked up a copy of Sherlock today, and I was hoping to get a chance to watch some of it, but that might have to wait.”

“You want to watch _Sherlock?”_ He sounded very surprised. “I thought you didn’t like watching anything on screens.”

“I’m interested in seeing what you do,” I explained. “Besides, I’ll get to stare at you for the whole length of the programme. Even with your clothes on, that’s not too shabby.”

Benedict grinned again. “Actually, Sherlock’s clothes are pretty fantastic. I wish I could keep some of them, especially the coat. I think you’ll like it.” He looked thoughtful. “Text me if you get the chance to watch some of it tomorrow. I want to know what you think.”

“Sure,” I said, fatigue suddenly crashing in on me. I yawned. “When do you have to be up and about tomorrow?”

“We’re just shooting some interiors in the afternoon,” he replied, his voice slowing as he cuddled in close, pulling the covers over us. “I can nap when I get back to my hotel.”

“Good,” I murmured, drifting off in a happy haze, surrounded by Ben’s arms and the scent of sex and his skin.


	8. Chapter 8

Luckily I had placed a standing order for a 6:30 am wakeup call, because I certainly hadn’t thought to arrange one last night. There was no time to waste, and Benedict respected my commitment to be downstairs on time, so we had to content ourselves with a few short caresses before getting ready to leave the room. Ben’s suit was a bit worse for wear, having spent the night crumpled on the floor, but he only needed to get back to his hotel room. He decided to take the stairs to the lobby so as not to provide my colleagues with fodder for speculation. I promised to call him at lunchtime to make sure he woke up and to let him know whether I was going to watch any of _Sherlock._

I decided to bring lunch up to my room and watch at least some of the DVD. While my laptop was booting up, I called Benedict.

“Ophelia, hi.” His sleepy voice was adorable. I wanted to climb through the phone and snuggle him up. “How did your morning go?”

“No worries,” I said. “How was your nap?” I was picturing him, hair tousled, eyes hooded. I felt myself becoming aroused and tried to think of something, anything else.

“Lonely,” he said petulantly, and my attempt at virtuous thoughts went right out the window. “I’d like it much better if you were here.”

I groaned with frustration. “When are you filming?”

“From one to seven or eight. Can I see you after?” He sounded more alert now, and I could hear that he was moving about the room.

“Yes, of course, but you’d better get moving,” I said. “It’s quarter past twelve now.”

He sighed. “I’ll be late, as usual, I’m afraid. Are you going to watch _Sherlock?_ ”

“Yes, I’m going to watch some while I have lunch, and I’ll probably get to some more of it after a nap if you’re going to be as late as eight or nine.” I heard traffic noise. “Ben, are you outside?”

“I’m on my balcony. Can’t smoke in the room.” I heard the click of a lighter, and then he inhaled. “I suppose you have to tell me that it’s bad for my health, right?“

I was silent, shocked. I hadn’t smelled smoke on him, though I supposed that he was used to having to go long periods without them. He hadn’t smoked during our date, not even after sex. I had to decide whether I could accept it—right now. Certainly under the influence of hormones, I decided that dating a smoker wasn’t necessarily condoning smoking.

“Just…don’t smoke in front of me, okay? We’ll talk about it later, if we have to.” I felt a little twinge of hypocrisy, since I was always haranguing my patients to quit.

“I suppose that’s the best answer I could hope for, from you,” he said. “Frankly, I’m a little surprised you didn’t shout at me.”

“Benedict, you’re the most interesting person I’ve met for a long time. I’m not going to miss the chance to get to know you by being a nag about a bad habit. Anything else you want to confess, though? Gambling, drinking, whoring?” I laughed. “I do have a limit, even for you.”

He chuckled. “No, smoking’s pretty much it. How about you? What dark secrets are lurking beneath your lovely surface, Ophelia?” His voice was teasing, campy.

“What’s the fun in telling you? Find out for yourself!” I answered flippantly. “Now get ready for work.”

“I’d rather talk to you,” he practically whined. “But you’re right, I’m going to be late as it is. Text me and tell me what you think of _Sherlock,_ okay? And I’ll ring you when I’m done on set. I think I’ll be too late for dinner though.”

“Not a problem. Do your best work…and give my best to Mark and Paul, right?”

“Absolutely. Later then. Miss you.” He rang off before I could reply, leaving me smiling at my mobile.

Despite planning to nap from one to four, I ended up watching the whole of _A Study in Pink._ I couldn’t tear myself away, as the pacing was fast, the characterizations were excellent, and the mystery was compelling. I recognised the voice and mannerisms I had seen Benedict display on the train, when I interrupted him with his script. I marveled at the cinematography and lighting that made him appear so pale and ethereal. He was right about the clothes, though the shirts seemed a bit tight. The excellent cast enhanced his performance, and the sheer volume of dialogue that poured out of him amazed me. I made a mental note that he had an incredible memory, which could be both good and bad.

I texted him: --Loved ASiP. Well done all round, you esp v talented. Lovely coat. Fans are right: Sherlock is SEXY. –Ophelia--

I really needed that nap. I hung the “DO NOT DISTURB” sign on my door, drew the curtains, and sank into the pile of pillows on the rather empty-feeling king size bed, wishing that I had some very specific company.

The shrill ring of my mobile woke me from a dead sleep, and it took me a moment to figure out what was making the noise. It was seven thirty! I had slept for over five hours, and had probably turned my body’s schedule on its ear. I answered, years of practice allowing me to sound alert even though my brain was running at half-speed. “Hello, Ben. Done at work?”

“Yes, but it’s going to take me a little while to get over there. Is nine too late to come by?” The sound of his voice sent shivers through me, and the thought that I’d get to be alone with him again tonight was thrilling.

“I have to do a few things before you get here, so nine’s perfect.” I figured that ninety minutes should be enough time to shower and order some dinner from room service.

“Excellent,” he said. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again.” This last was said at least an octave lower than his usual speaking voice, the vibration somehow resonating between my legs and making me instantly wet.

“Yeah,” I said in a breathy voice I scarcely recognised as my own. “Me too.”

He chuckled, and then rang off. Damn, he was the master of ending phone conversations provocatively. Ever competitive, I resolved to pay him back and leave him staring at his mobile one day.

Shaking my head in an effort to finish waking up, I got out of bed and started tidying up the room. I realized that I didn’t have anything sexy to wear that he hadn’t already seen, and kicked myself for buying only one set of lingerie yesterday. Well, he was going to get Casual Ophelia: everyday cotton knickers and bra, t-shirt, jeans. He couldn’t be expecting me to dress up when we weren’t going out. I called room service, and then jumped in the shower. By half past eight, I had placed the room service tray in the hall. I decided to start watching the pilot version of _A Study in Pink,_ despite not having enough time to see it all. I didn’t want simply to sit and watch the clock waiting for Benedict, who would probably be late anyway. I was admiring Sherlock’s tight black jeans as he rolled about on the floor of his flat, drugged by the cabbie, when I heard a knock at the door. “It’s me,” I heard Ben say, and I flung open the door.

Sherlock Holmes stood in the hallway of the Radisson Blu in well-fitting trousers, a snug purple shirt which stood open at the throat, a grey scarf, and that long swishy coat.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes pays a surprise visit to Ophelia's hotel room.

_How does he want me to play this?_ I looked up and down the hall, which was empty. Then I looked him up and down, slowly and obviously. He stared at me, face impassive, waiting.

“I was expecting someone else,” I told him. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

Benedict’s eyes narrowed slightly as he processed that I wasn’t going to just drag him into the room, strip off his sexy costume, and shag him senseless. I wondered just how far Ben could take the act, especially once I got my hands on him. I decided to find out: I was going to have sex with Sherlock Holmes.

“May I come in?” he asked quietly in that resonant and commanding voice that was somehow not Ben’s. “I’d rather not speak in the hall.”

“Who are you?” I repeated more forcefully as I folded my arms under my breasts and leaned sideways on the doorframe.

He fixed me with his smouldering gaze, chin down, the same stare that I’d seen him use on screen, and I could swear his eyes looked pale grey instead of blue. Is he wearing contact lenses? I wondered, and then lost my train of thought as he spoke. “Forgive my rudeness.” He removed his gloves and proffered his right hand to shake, giving me a sudden dutiful smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and vanished as rapidly as it had appeared. I unfolded my arms and took it. “Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.”

“And what is your business with me?” I went with the assumption that “Sherlock” knew who I was; an introduction was unnecessary.

“If you’ll allow me inside, I’ll explain.” He was standing closer now than a stranger normally would, crowding me so that I would take a step back into the room. I decided that it was better to get him out of the hall before someone came along and squealed, “It’s Sherlock Holmes!” than to stall any longer. I stepped aside and gestured for him to enter. Once inside, he removed the long coat and scarf and carefully hung them on a hanger in the closet. I figured that Ben would get in trouble with whatever wardrobe mistress he’d charmed or bribed to allow him to borrow the costume if he brought it back rumpled from a night on my floor. _Damn, no ripping his shirt off then,_ I thought ruefully. I wondered what excuse he had given to make off with clothes. I doubted he had confided that he planned to fuck his date while in character as Sherlock Holmes. I was staring at the whiteness of his throat exposed by the open collar of the tight purple shirt when he spoke.

“Now, Dr Parkes,” he said, clapping his hands together. “To business.”

I continued to be difficult. “I’ll ask you yet again, Mr Holmes: What business do you have with me?”

“It’s…an experiment,” he said quietly. “If I tell you what to expect, it will invalidate the results. You’re a doctor, surely you understand that.” He stalked toward the window, stood there with his hands in his pockets, and surveyed the room. “Over here,” he said peremptorily, his imperious gesture indicating the area near the bed.

Folding my arms again, I smirked and raised my eyebrows at him, wishing I could raise only one like he could. _He expected me to leap into his arms, and now he has to improvise._ I stayed where I was, waiting to see what he would do next.

He met my unspoken challenge with an impatient huff, and then began methodically removing his clothing. He carefully unbuttoned his shirt cuffs, then the shirtfront, before taking off the shirt and draping it carefully over the back of the desk chair. Next his shoes and socks came off, followed by the belt and trousers. Somehow his movements managed to convey annoyance barely contained. When he had removed his pants, green this time, he repeated his gesture directing me to join him by the bed.

While continuing to wear my _What’s all this, then?_ look, I crossed the room, stood as close to him as I could without actually touching him, (which was tricky, since his erection was trying to cross the gap) and said, “Yes, Mr Holmes?” with my own dose of impatience.

In response, Sherlock raised his hands to my shoulders, took hold of them gently but firmly, and kissed me. It was a different kiss than any we had shared before. It was tentative, _experimental._ Now that we had come to the sex, I wasn’t going to play hard to get anymore. I responded, bringing my arms up to embrace him, and deepening the kiss. He reached down and found the hem of my t-shirt, lifting it off as I raised my arms high. My jeans went next, followed quickly and efficiently by my bra and knickers. His hands returned to my shoulders, but this time to press downward, a command. I knelt before him, his erection the only outward indication of his arousal. His face remained placid, his breathing even. _Let’s see how well you can act through this, Ben,_ I thought as I pushed his foreskin back and enveloped his cock with my mouth. I was rewarded with his sharp intake of breath, followed by a long exhalation. He reached one hand out to the desk for support, and the other hand played in my hair. I relaxed my throat and took him in deeply, alternating quick, shallow bobs of my head with long, slow sucks up the entire length of his shaft. His breathing became faster, heavier, but he stayed silent. Glancing up the length of his body, I saw that his head was thrown back, the elegant curve of his neck and the line of his jaw exposed. I switched to flicking my tongue across the fraenulum at the base of the glans, one hand caressing his shaft, the other gently massaging his balls and stroking his perineum. His breath hitched, and suddenly he reached down, grabbed me under the arms, and flung me backwards onto the bed. He followed, covering me with his body, reaching over my head to snatch a condom off the bedside table.

Deciding to play this to the hilt, I pretended to struggle as he sat on me, pinning my arms to my sides with his knees, and applied the condom. “Mr Holmes!” I cried. “What are you doing?”

“Elementary, my dear,” he said as he opened my thighs and positioned himself to enter me. “I’m fucking you.” On “fuck,” he thrust hard, driving his cock all the way into me.

I gasped. Evidently, sucking him off had made me plenty wet enough for sex without further foreplay. Sherlock covered my body completely with his, his weight on me, his hands roving over my skin, stroking here, tweaking there. His face remained calm, a small smile playing around the corner of his mouth at my moans and cries in the face of his silence. He methodically took me apart, using his body as the tool for my deconstruction. He clinically studied my face and catalogued my responses, adjusting his technique accordingly. In a back corner of my brain, I was thinking about how Ben was fucking me while pretending to be someone else: it was in some ways sort of creepy, but it was also a complete turn-on. I would have to sort out how I felt about that later. Right then I was too busy coming to think about anything. I have no idea whether I called out Ben’s name, or Sherlock’s, or none at all, and I was damned if I was going to ask him. I hoped that Ben was too occupied with his own orgasm to notice if I had called out for Sherlock.

Benedict (Sherlock?) rolled off of me and took care of the condom. He remained sitting on the side of the bed, studying me with his intense gaze, one hand stroking my belly. This had gone far enough.

“Sherlock is beautiful, sexy, and exciting, but can I have Benedict back now?” I traced a finger down his side, and then looked back into his face.

His whole bearing changed in an instant, as though between one moment and the next, the man before me had been swapped for another. That endearing half smile was back. “I was a little worried how you’d react,” he said, sounding relieved. “I thought you might think it was too soon to be playing games…or that you might actually prefer Sherlock to me.”

I gaped at him. “But…Sherlock’s not real.” I couldn’t really explain myself any better than that, at least not two minutes after a mind-blowing orgasm.

The half smile bloomed into a full one. I sat up and threw my arms around him. “I have enough trouble believing _you’re_ real, Ben.”

“Why’s that?” he looked genuinely puzzled. I was a total sucker for that one-eyebrow-in-the-air look of his.

“Because you’re so…perfect! I’m almost glad that you smoke, and you’re late all the time, because it proves that you’re real, and not some fantasy I dreamed up out of loneliness.” I couldn’t look at him while confessing this, and I buried my face in his shoulder.

“Ophelia…I’m just a man.” He raised my chin and forced me to meet his eyes. “I don’t think I’m an average man, but I’m certainly not perfect.”

“I know,” I said happily. “That’s why you’re wonderful.”

He sighed. “I suppose I’ll just have to let you get to know me better, and tell me if you still think I’m so wonderful in a few months.”

“Is that your way of saying you’d like to keep seeing me?” I kept my tone playful, but my stomach knotted up waiting for his answer.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I hope you have time for me. You’ve made it quite clear that your career comes first in your life.”

“Benedict,” I said levelly, “I will make time for you. I may not always be able to arrange time off, but we’ll make it work, okay?”

“I think that the challenge of finding time to be together will make it that much sweeter.” He kissed me tenderly, and then frowned. “Are you—are you seeing anyone else?”

“No, and I don’t plan to, either…you?” The butterflies were back.

“I’ve been on a few dates here and there in the past few months. No second dates though. No one has really interested me, until you.” He smiled. “No more first dates. I want to concentrate on getting to know you.” My stomach unclenched.

Benedict studied me a moment and suddenly burst out laughing. When I asked him what was so funny, he couldn’t speak, but instead pointed to the mirror on the wall opposite the bed. I stood up and walked over to the mirror to see that Benedict’s pancake makeup was smeared all over my face and neck. Giggling, I staggered into the loo to wash it off. He was going to see me without makeup sooner or later. I didn’t think that was going to scare him off now.

When I came out, wrapped in a robe, Benedict was waiting to wash the remains of his makeup off too. On his way to the loo, he stopped and took my chin in his hand, turning my face a little side to side for inspection. “You really don’t need makeup,” he said. “You’re very pretty without it.” I could feel the blush rising in my cheeks at his attention. “And you’re adorable when you blush,” he added, kissing me carefully to avoid transferring more makeup to my clean face. Before I could reply, he ducked into the loo and shut the door.

I collapsed into the armchair by the bed. I had to go back to London tomorrow. Back to work. Back to reality. For years, I had lived for my work. Suddenly, I realized that I wasn’t eager to go back, at least not when it meant missing Ben.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia's back to work in London. Ben visits for the weekend.

The train ride back to London was not nearly as nice as the one to Cardiff had been. Because Benedict was starting a series of night shoots, he had been able to see me off at the train station. I wasn’t too fond of public displays of affection, but I couldn’t resist what he insisted on calling a “see you soon” kiss. Evidently it looked as good as it felt, because several people actually applauded when we finally parted.

With three hours to kill, I was able to get some reading done for work and also watch _The Blind Banker._ While I wasn’t as impressed with the episode as a whole compared to _A Study in Pink,_ I had to admit that Benedict looked smashing, and his acting was incredible. Watching the credits, one name rang a bell, and I realised that Benedict’s ex-girlfriend, Olivia, was in the episode. Intensely curious, I ran back the DVD and studied her. We were very different in appearance. Maybe Benedict didn’t have a “type.” I shrugged—it didn’t matter now what his ex-girlfriend looked like.

Back in London, I jumped back into my routine, playing catch-up for the time I’d been gone. Benedict was working at night, and I worked long days, we didn’t have time for much conversation. He would be back in London over the weekend, though he had some prior commitments, and I was on call Saturday, so any plans we made could be ruined without notice. We agreed on tentative plans for Saturday and a firm date on Sunday. The week passed in a blur of work and too-little sleep, though several colleagues commented that I seemed happier than usual. I wondered what sort of sourpuss I had been before.

Somehow I managed to squeeze in a little shopping before the weekend, and replaced all my “unmentionables” with items worthy of being seen and, hopefully, removed by Ben. I spruced up my flat on the assumption that he would see it, and made sure I finished watching the DVD, including the commentaries, which were pretty amusing.

On Saturday, I finished my hospital rounds by three o’clock. I had agreed to call Benedict if I was free for dinner, but it was too early to say yet. I ran some errands before heading home. At five o’clock, Benedict got impatient and called to find out whether I was free. He invited me over to his flat for takeaway and a movie, “if I could bear to watch something.”

I laughed. “Benedict, I would watch the Eurovision finals as long as I was sitting next to you.”

“Wow, you must really fancy me,” he replied, and I could hear his smile in his voice.

“Indeed I do,” I told him. My pager sounded. “Oh, bloody hell! I’ll have to call you back.”

“Alright,” he said. “I understood this could happen. Let me know.” He rang off. I immediately dialed the number on my pager, which I recognised as A and E. I needed to come in immediately and take a man having a coronary to the catheterisation lab and unblock his arteries. Time was of the utmost importance, so I rang Benedict while walking the two blocks to the hospital.

“I’m afraid dinner’s off,” I told him ruefully. “I’ll be with this patient for quite some time. How late can I call you? You should ring up a friend or something. There’s no reason you should sit at home because I got called away.”

“I’m trying to keep to a night schedule,” he said. “We’re shooting nights again all next week. I need to work on my dialogue. I’ll still be up when you get back.” His voice dropped to a rumble, “I don’t want to wait until tomorrow to see you. Will you promise to come over even if it’s late?”

I was eager to see him too. I agreed that I would call when I was free, and we’d see whether coming over still seemed reasonable. I was determined not to show up directly from the hospital: no makeup was one thing, but rumpled and needing a shower was another. Worst case, we’d meet for lunch and spend the rest of the day and night together. Ben didn’t have to be on the train back to Cardiff until Monday afternoon, but I had to work in the morning.

“I’m rather hoping to make breakfast for you tomorrow,” Ben said, his voice sexy and low. “The cooking’s not the best at the Café Cumberbatch, but I can assure you that the service is excellent.”

Hearing that, I thought I was having a coronary myself, since all the blood in my body seemed to suddenly rush to my cheeks and between my legs. My heart pounded and I couldn’t catch my breath. And damn, I was here, with work to do. I literally shook my head to clear it and refocus.

“Good service can make up for a lot,” I told him in what I hoped was a bedroom voice. “I look forward to sampling the special.” He chuckled on the other end of the line. “But now, I have to go. I’ll call you later, when I’m done, okay?”

“Go, darling, and do your best work.” I smiled, realising that he was repeating my words to him earlier in the week.

Ten minutes later, I was wearing scrubs, a mask, a hair cover, and sterile gloves, working to save a man’s life. This was my job, and I was damned good at it. I put thoughts of Benedict aside and guided the catheter on the screen into the patient’s still-beating heart.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia finally gets done at the hospital; Benedict bids her come over even though it's the middle of the night. Fatigue, poetry, and sex ensue.

It was two in the morning. The patient was stabilized, the documentation completed, and the house officer instructed what to watch for. A security officer gave me a lift back to my flat and saw me safely though the entrance door. I knew that Benedict had told me to call no matter what the time, but I was worried that he might have fallen asleep, and didn’t want to wake him. I felt muddle-headed and slow, but I ached to see him. As I got ready to jump in the shower, I texted him:

\--Finally done, barring new calls. Still up for a visit? --Ophelia--

When I was finished cleaning myself up, I felt a little more clear-headed. Ben’s reply awaited me:

\--Definitely still up, hoping for a house call. Doctor, no one can help me but you. –Ben--

Laughing, I fired off:

\--What are your symptoms? Not sure cardiologist indicated. –Dr P--

I called a cab and threw some things in an overnight bag. Ben was evidently thinking carefully about his reply, because it was about 5 minutes before my mobile beeped again with an incoming text:

\--My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk…--

I stared at my mobile, the words looking somehow familiar. I ran to my computer and typed them into the search window. Of course! I texted back:

\-- Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep?--

I hurried downstairs to meet the cab before the driver decided I wasn’t coming after all. When I checked my mobile again, Ben had texted:

I felt a little guilty that I had used a search engine to reply. At least I knew he was quoting a poem. I resolved to confess all when I got to Ben’s flat.

Benedict was waiting on the sidewalk in pyjamas and a leather jacket, his feet in untied Converse trainers. I was grateful for the escort at three am, so I refrained from commenting on his strange ensemble. His flat took up the second floor of the house, and he ushered me up the stairs, carrying my bag. As soon as he entered the flat, he kicked off the trainers and shed the jacket. “Here we are, then,” he said, gesturing at the flat. “My swinging bachelor pad.”

It was a typical one-bedroom flat, though perhaps a bit tidier than one might expect a single man’s to be. Perhaps his years at Harrow had instilled a bit of neatness in him, or perhaps he had just picked up a bit, knowing I was coming over. There were still books everywhere, which reminded me of my little subterfuge.

“Ben,” I said, “I have a confession to make.”

He looked stricken. I hurriedly went on. “Nothing so bad! It’s just…I had to look up _Ode to a Nightingale._ I can’t quote poetry on the fly. I’m not as literate as you think I am.” I hung my head.

He lifted my chin gently. “Look at me,” he urged quietly. I met his eyes, still embarrassed.

“I think you’re wonderful. If you don’t have time to read poetry, I’ll recite it to you.” He proceeded to recite the whole of Ode to a Nightingale, gazing intently into my eyes. I had never been much of a fan of poetry in general, but in Ben’s voice the words came to life and painted beautiful pictures in my mind. When he had finished, his voice trailing off on the last line, I had melted, lost in his sonorous tones and his passion-bright eyes. There was nothing in my world but him. I reached up and kissed him, long and slow.

“Benedict,” I whispered against his throat, “take me to bed.”

In response, he swept me off my feet, carrying me like a bride across the flat. He set me back on my feet at the foot of his bed. I swayed, my exhaustion at having been awake for twenty hours, and working for sixteen of them, overtaking me like an ocean wave, dragging me under. Benedict steadied me, looking concerned.

“Are you all right?” he asked, peering into my face.

“Just tired. I’m fine.” My voice came out weak, vulnerable.

“Lie down,” Ben instructed, helping me onto the bed. “Let me take care of you.”

That sounded like the best idea I’d heard in a while. I let Ben take off my shoes and socks, followed by my jeans and shirt. He sat beside me on the side of the bed. “Would you like me to rub your back?” he asked.

“That would be nice,” I murmured, half asleep already in the dimness of his bedroom, basking in the sound of his voice and the feel of his hands on my skin. I reached up and popped open the front fastener on my bra, gratified by his sharp intake of breath, then rolled over and let him slip it down my arms and away. I felt the mattress rise as Ben stood up, and then heard a drawer open. I heard a noise I couldn’t identify which must have been Benedict rubbing his hands together, because when he placed them on my back, they were slick with massage oil. I groaned at the sensation of his warm slippery hands on my skin. He knew what he was doing, targeting my tense trapezius muscles with enough pressure to coax them into relaxing. He moved lower, easing the tension in my lower back. After a moment’s hesitation, he slid my lacy knickers down my hips and legs and off, returning to continue massaging my back. I moaned when his hands slid lower still to knead my arse, his fingers dipping in between my thighs, coming closer and closer to the wet heat between my legs. When he slipped an oil-slicked finger inside me, I gasped in pleasure.

“Roll over.” Whether it was a request or a command, I didn’t care. When I did as he said, I saw that he must have removed his pyjama top when he had gotten the massage oil, and he was wearing only the bottoms, which were tented with his erection. He slid them off and stood naked by the side of the bed, watching me.

“Come here,” I whispered, welcoming him with my arms.

“I should let you sleep.” His voice was husky, low, and unconvincing.

“I’ll sleep later. Come here and make love to me.” I spread my thighs a little, inviting him in.

His breathing was ragged as he yanked open the drawer of the table beside the bed and snatched out a condom. He ripped open the packet with his teeth and rolled the condom down over his straining cock. Then he closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath. When he opened his eyes again, he seemed calmer, more in control. He carefully joined me on the bed, taking me gently in his arms, and kissed me deeply, unhurriedly, and very thoroughly. Nothing else existed, nothing else mattered in that moment but Benedict: the smell and taste of him, the feel of him surrounding me, the press of his flesh on mine. When he entered me, it was slow and sweet and deliberate. He stopped moving, his cock completely inside me, and I wrapped my calves over his, legs barely parted. He traced his thumb over my cheekbone, searching my face. Evidently he saw whatever it was that he sought there, for he smiled, then bent his head to kiss me again as his hips began to move, rocking gently like the waves lap the shore. I buried one hand in his tousled dark curls and stroked the other down his back to rest on his arse as it bobbed gently up and down. He moaned into my mouth but kept to his pace. As the waves over time wear away the sand, his gentle but relentless thrusting was bringing me ever closer to a climax. My incoherent moans and cries of pleasure added to Benedict’s excitement, but he held himself back, only occasionally losing control enough to thrust harder, then backing off his intensity again. His breathing came in pants, and I knew he was trying to hold off his own orgasm until I reached mine. I raised my legs to wrap about his waist, and the change in the angle at which our bodies met increased the friction between us. Ben’s tender rocking continued for only a few more moments when my orgasm crashed over me like a tidal wave, ripping away my sense of time and place, pulling me under into pure sensation. Feeling me convulse around him, Benedict abandoned his restraint and slammed into me, hard and fast, practically shouting, “Oh, fuck, yes, Ophelia!” He came, shuddering, eyelids fluttering, hands clutching for an anchor as he too was swept away.

We slowly came back to our senses, a sweaty, oily tangle of limbs. Ben barely had the energy to clean himself up, and I fell into sleep almost before he drew up the covers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to Benedict Cumberbatch reciting _Ode to a Nightingale_ at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TdphtMWjies.
> 
> John Keats  
>  _Ode to a Nightingale_
> 
> My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains   
>  My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,  
> Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains  
>  One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:  
> 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,  
>  But being too happy in thine happiness,--  
>  That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees  
>  In some melodious plot  
>  Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,  
>  Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
> 
> O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been  
>  Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,  
> Tasting of Flora and the country green,  
>  Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!  
> O for a beaker full of the warm South,  
>  Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,  
>  With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,  
>  And purple-stained mouth;  
>  That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,  
>  And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
> 
> Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget  
>  What thou among the leaves hast never known,  
> The weariness, the fever, and the fret  
>  Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;  
> Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,  
>  Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;  
>  Where but to think is to be full of sorrow  
>  And leaden-eyed despairs,  
>  Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,  
>  Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
> 
> Away! away! for I will fly to thee,  
>  Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,  
> But on the viewless wings of Poesy,  
>  Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:  
> Already with thee! tender is the night,  
>  And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,  
>  Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;  
>  But here there is no light,  
>  Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown  
>  Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
> 
> I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,  
>  Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,  
> But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet  
>  Wherewith the seasonable month endows  
> The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;  
>  White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;  
>  Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;  
>  And mid-May's eldest child,  
>  The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,  
>  The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
> 
> Darkling I listen; and, for many a time  
>  I have been half in love with easeful Death,  
> Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,  
>  To take into the air my quiet breath;  
>  Now more than ever seems it rich to die,  
>  To cease upon the midnight with no pain,  
>  While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad  
>  In such an ecstasy!  
>  Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--  
>  To thy high requiem become a sod.
> 
> Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!  
>  No hungry generations tread thee down;  
> The voice I hear this passing night was heard  
>  In ancient days by emperor and clown:  
> Perhaps the self-same song that found a path  
>  Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,  
>  She stood in tears amid the alien corn;  
>  The same that oft-times hath  
>  Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam  
>  Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
> 
> Forlorn! the very word is like a bell  
>  To toll me back from thee to my sole self!  
> Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well  
>  As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.  
> Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades  
>  Past the near meadows, over the still stream,  
>  Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep  
>  In the next valley-glades:  
>  Was it a vision, or a waking dream?  
>  Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep?


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More porny goodness. You want plot all the time? Well, there's a little plot.

I was dreaming that I was on the tube, in a crowded car. Bodies were all around me, so packed in that they were keeping me upright without a handhold. I felt particularly encroached upon from the right, with someone pasted up against my side, seemingly trying to topple me over. I slowly came to sort out that I was in bed, the sun streaming in the window—not my window, I suddenly realized, and the pieces fell into place. The pressure on my right was Ben, pressing his morning erection into my side as he held me in his arms, still asleep but dreaming. His eyes flitted to and fro beneath his lids, and he inhaled suddenly as I turned to look at his beautiful angular face, the sunlight throwing his nose and cheekbones into sharp relief. Not wishing to startle him out of his dream-state, I gently kissed the tip of his nose, the sweep of each cheekbone, and the middle of his brow, which furrowed slightly in his sleepy confusion. His tiny frown was so endearing that I kissed him full on the mouth, unable to hold back any longer. He kissed me back, and I could tell the moment when he passed from sleep to awareness. He pulled me to him, deepening the kiss and throwing one leg over both of mine. Opening his eyes at last, he gave me a sleepy smile. Despite his morning stubble and his curls standing out from his head in all directions, he was the most appealing sight I could imagine.

“Good morning, handsome,” I told him, and his smile widened.

“I can’t think of a better way to wake up in the morning than this,” he said, running his hand down the length of my side.

“Definitely hard to beat,” I said. “Certainly in the top five.”

“Top five?” he asked with mock indignation. “What are the other four?”

I grinned. “If you’re lucky, you’ll find out.” I reached down between us and wrapped my hand around his still-erect cock, and was rewarded with a startled, “Oh!” before he once again covered my mouth with his. This time he kissed me energetically, delving into my mouth with his tongue as though seeking a treasure hidden there. Ben’s hands found my arse and pressed me to him so that my left hand was trapped between the hard silkiness of his cock and the softness of his belly. My right arm was pinned under his head. Ben rocked his hips, moaning as he kissed me. He lifted his leg off of me, then forced his knee between mine, opening my thighs. As I wrapped my left leg around his waist, he moved his hand to touch my soft folds, already wet for him. He gently probed with his fingers, bringing small sounds from me as I writhed against him. I felt him slip two fingers inside me, and then his thumb began to flick back and forth across my clit, making me cry out in pleasure. He held me firmly against him, continuing to thrust his hips against my hand and belly while he coaxed me steadily towards climax. I clung to him, unable to do more than hold on, head thrown back. Benedict kissed my throat hungrily, and the tiny portion of my brain still able to process coherent thoughts wondered whether he was leaving marks. It felt so good, I couldn’t bring myself to care. I squeezed his fingers inside me and was rewarded when his thumb sped up its strumming of my clit. I cried out, so close to orgasm, teetering on the brink. “Ben! Don’t stop!” I gasped breathlessly, and in response, he sped up still more, planting his thumb firmly on my clit and rocking it rapidly side to side. I came hard, the orgasm stealing my breath away and making me see stars. As my vision cleared, and the roaring in my ears subsided, Benedict pulled his hand from between my legs and sucked my juices off his fingers, eyes on mine.

“I can’t think of a better way to wake up in the morning than this,” he said again, this time wicked and sexy, where the first time it had been sleepy and sweet.

“Yes,” I murmured, still somewhat dazed. “Me, too.”

He gave me a cocky smirk. “Top five, my arse.”

I giggled. “I just wanted to get a rise out of you,” I said, emphasizing the word “rise” with both my voice and my left hand, which was still holding his engorged cock.

“You are incorrigible!” he said, even as his head fell back and his eyes closed with the sensation of my thumb sliding over the head of his cock, slick with pre-come. He brought his chin down slowly, pale eyes opening to fix on mine. “Don’t ever change.” With that, he kissed me, nipping at my lower lip with his teeth. “I’ve got more energy than last night,” he purred. “Are you up for a more athletic position?”

“What did you have in mind?” I asked, intrigued.

“It’s easier to show you than to explain,” he said with a knowing smile. “Trust me?”

“Yes,” I said soberly. “I do.” Then I leaned to murmur in his ear. “So it’s true then: all actors want to direct.”

“Yes, we do,” he laughed. “Now then, young lady, on your knees.” He moved the pillows away from the headboard and indicated that I should kneel where they had been. After putting on a condom, he knelt behind me, sliding his legs under me until I was sitting in his lap. I held onto the headboard for support as he eased me up on my knees, then back down to impale me on his cock. He took hold of my hips with both hands. “Is this alright?”

I looked back at him. “Shouldn’t that be, “Brace yourself”? I have your cock inside me, how could it not be “alright”?”

He gave me that quirk of the lip. “Well, then, brace yourself, my dear.” With that, he pulled his hips back, then suddenly rammed into me, his belly meeting my bum with a resounding slap. A startled gasp escaped me, and I straightened my arms against the headboard to avoid being knocked into it. Ben continued his vigourous thrusting, pushing my knees closer and closer to the headboard and forcing me more and more upright. When I was essentially sandwiched between his body and the headboard, he brought his right hand around my body and found my clit. With the feel of him behind me and inside me, his skillful fingers, and his grunts and moans, I came quickly, shuddering and pressing back against him, unable to move in any other direction. Ben rode out my climax, hissing, “Yes, that’s it!” in my ear. Once my orgasm ended, Ben wrapped his arms around my upper body and hauled me backwards until my head fell against his shoulder. Still pounding his cock into me, he fed on my throat, his hands roving over the front of my body. All I could do was make little sounds of pleasure. My hands found his hips, and I held on, feeling as though I were riding a mechanical bull and could be thrown at any instant. Pressed against him, I felt the growl start in his chest, an outpouring of joy and pleasure that came out of him as he came inside me, clutching me to him so hard that for a moment I couldn’t even breathe. He relaxed, slipped from me, and carefully lowered us both to the mattress.

He lay there, eyes closed, the fingers of one hand idly tracing patterns on my skin. The sunlight from the window made him look almost transparent, so beautiful and yet so fragile. The prominences of his bones pressed up against his skin, and the sunlight created even greater hollows with shadows. For an instant I feared that when I looked away, he would disappear, merely a figment of my fevered imagination.

“You’re so thin,” I said, kissing the peak of one hipbone. “Are you sure you’re eating enough?”

He opened his eyes, the light catching them and making them appear to glow. “Sherlock needs to look angular and interesting. He gets involved in his work and forgets to eat. I’ll put a few pounds back on when filming is done.” He hesitated. “I was even thinner for _Third Star._ James is dying of cancer.” He gave me a quick overview of the movie, and then studied my face, waiting for my response.

“I don’t think I want to see it,” I told him. “I can’t bear to think of you like that.”

He sat up, taking my hands in his. “I want you to see it,” he said earnestly. “It’s some of my best work so far, I think. We can watch it together, and whenever you need reassurance, you can give me a squeeze. How’s that?” He gave me a tentative smile, trying to get me to smile back.

“I can’t possibly watch it in a theatre,” I protested. “I’ll run out weeping, I know I will.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to wait for the DVD release in September, and watch it at home.” He said this in a reassuring tone, but the words got my attention. He was casually assuming that we would still be together months from now. I decided the best course was to be as blasé about it as he was. The last thing I wanted to do was ruin this relationship by overthinking it.

“It’s a deal,” I said.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Ophelia's birthday, a fact which she hasn't told Benedict. But he's Sherlock Holmes, isn't he?

Over the next few weeks, Benedict and I spoke every day, though sometimes briefly, and managed to see each other at least once each week. I felt like I was living a fairy tale, as if my prince had finally ridden up on his white steed to whisk me away. I was sure that, like every other romantic relationship in my life, this too would end badly. After all, what could he possibly see in me? Whenever it seemed that our conversation was taking a serious turn, I deflected him with jokes. I didn’t want to hear that he wasn’t ready for a serious relationship, or he needed time, or any of the other things men said when they didn’t want to get serious. I sensed that sometimes Benedict seemed frustrated with me, but he didn’t push. I just wanted to enjoy the happy haze for as long as it lasted.

In my opinion, the last birthday worth celebrating is 25. After that, it’s a reminder of time’s passage, nothing more. I hadn’t told Ben that my birthday was coming up. He was in Cardiff, I was working, what was the point? So I was very surprised when two dozen red roses were delivered to my office on my birthday. The card contained the poem _A Red, Red Rose_ by Robert Burns, and the words, “Happy birthday, darling Ophelia. Love always, Ben.” I was stunned—Benedict had never told me he loved me before, but this poem said nothing else. I refused to answer any questions from my staff other than to confirm that it was my birthday, and the flowers were from my boyfriend. After a trip to the loo to fix my mascara, which had run when I got teary reading the card, I jumped back into my workday. Walking home with the large bouquet was an adventure, and I earned smiles from many passersby.

I phoned Ben at our usual time. After thanking him for the flowers, I asked, “How did you know it was my birthday? I know I haven’t told you.”

He chuckled. “I’m Sherlock Bloody Holmes, darling. I deduced your birthday from the label in your knickers.”

“As if you were reading labels when you took off my knickers!” I laughed. “No, really, Ben, how did you find out?”

“You left your wallet out one of the nights you were at my flat,” he confessed. “I peeked at your driving license. Why didn’t you tell me your birthday was coming up?”

“Benedict Timothy Carlton Cumberbatch! You are a snoop, you naughty boy!” I sighed. “I just don’t like a fuss, and I didn’t want you to feel obligated to get me a present. The flowers were very nice, though, and the poem—oh, Ben, that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

In response, Benedict recited _A Red, Red Rose,_ complete with Scots accent and heartfelt intent.

“Oh, Ben. I love you, too,” I managed through my tears. “I miss you. I wish you were here. I’d show you just how much I liked your presents.”

“Soon, darling, soon. Have you managed to arrange to be free for any of my filming break?” There was a ten-day gap between filming episodes of Sherlock in Cardiff.

“I’ve cleared four days over the weekend,” I told him. “That was the most I could get.”

“We’ll make the best of it. How would you feel about a little belated birthday getaway?”

“Ben, I don’t want you to go overboard,” I protested. I wasn’t used to having someone spend money on me, and I wasn’t comfortable with it.

“Darling, I’ve been working non-stop, and I want to whisk my girlfriend out of town on holiday. Will you let me pamper you, just a bit? Please?” He sounded so damned reasonable.

“All right,” I conceded. “But don’t make a habit of it.” My tone made it clear that I was joking. I was very much looking forward to four whole days with Benedict, without work or filming schedules interfering. I didn’t even care where we went. All that mattered was spending time with Benedict—especially now that I was on birth control and we could stop using condoms.

“It’s a slippery slope, darling,” he told me. “I’m going to keep treating you like a princess until you get used to it. Then you’ll be ruined for anyone but me. It’s my nefarious master plan to win you forever.”

I gaped at the phone. Was he joking? “Don’t dastardly villains with nefarious master plans have twirly moustaches?”

“I mean it, Ophelia. Get used to being well-loved. Happy birthday. I’ll get to see you soon.”

“Dream of me,” I said automatically, still in shock after his declaration.

“I always do,” he said, as always. “Dream of me?”

“I will. Ben?”

“I’m still here.”

“I—thank you. For your patience.”

“You’re worth the wait, darling. Sweet dreams.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns
> 
> O, my Luve's like a red, red rose,  
> That's newly sprung in June.  
> O, my Luve's like a melodie  
> That's sweetly play'd in tune.
> 
> As fair as thou, my bonnie lass,  
> So deep in luve am I;  
> And I will love thee still, my dear,  
> Till a' the seas gang dry.
> 
> Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,  
> And the rocks melt wi' the sun:  
> I will love thee still, my dear,  
> While the sands o' life shall run:
> 
> And fare thee well, my only luve!  
> And fare thee weel, a while!  
> And I will come again, my luve,  
> Tho' it ware ten thousand mile.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benedict and Ophelia take a holiday trip to Amberley Castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional material added 5 November (remember, remember!).

Benedict and I were on another train, this one to Arundel in West Sussex. Ben had arranged for us to stay at Amberley Castle, widely held to be the most romantic getaway in England. I had peeked at the website online, and the rooms were truly breathtaking. We were booked into the Chichester room, which the website boasted had “a very special bathroom.” I was curious to see what that meant.

Knowing that we were heading for such a romantic holiday, we took delight in teasing one another on the train. Intense looks, “accidental” brushes of hands against breast or thigh, and an exaggerated indolent stretch on Benedict’s part made us practically insane by the time we shut the door of the room behind us. I found myself pressed breathlessly against the door, Ben’s hands pulling up my blouse, his lips on my throat.

“God!” he breathed against my skin. “I thought that clerk would never stop talking!”

My hands snaked under his shirt to touch his skin at last. “There’s a very nice bed behind you,” I managed to gasp as his hand found my breast.

“Later,” he demanded, and reached up my skirt to hook a finger into the front of my lacy knickers, pulling them down. “I need you right now.” My knickers got trapped at mid-thigh by the suspenders for my stockings. Ben fumbled with his belt, and then shoved his trousers and pants down to pool at his feet. Catching up the hem of my skirt with both hands, he lifted me by the waist and, in a single motion, entered me, pinning me against the door. The door rattled in its frame.

“Ben!” I gasped. “Everyone will hear us!”

“Let them hear,” he growled against my neck, kissing me as he continued to make love to me frantically. I wasn’t sure which was louder, the door’s rocking or my cries for more. Ben ground his hips into me, groaning, still gripping my hips so hard I was sure I’d have bruises. My legs squeezed his waist, and I wrapped my arms around his neck as though my life depended on it. Suddenly, the pressure against my back was gone. Benedict was turning, carrying me, still impaled on his cock, stumbling toward the bed. I landed with a whump, sinking into the thickest duvet I had ever seen. An instant later, Ben’s face was above mine, his hands to either side of my head. “Better?” he panted, his face flushed. I was amazed he hadn’t gotten tangled up in his trousers and dropped me on the floor. I reached up and unbuttoned the last two buttons of his shirt. The sunlight coming in through the curtains set his hair aglow, so that he looked like a debauched angel hovering above me.

“Lovely,” I answered, and squeezed his cock inside me on his next thrust. His sharp intake of breath told me what he thought about that. My stretched knickers were biting into my legs, and I was still wearing one shoe. I wrapped my legs around his thighs and toed the shoe off. He laughed at the thump as it hit the floor.

“A bit keen, wasn’t I?” he said, kissing me and smoothing a wayward curl out of my eyes. “I’ve still got my shoes on.”

The mental picture of Benedict in only shoes, socks, and open shirt, rutting at me like a beast gave me a fit of the giggles. He tried to hold in his laughter but failed and exploded with it. We couldn’t stop, for just as one of us would manage to settle, the other would start again. Ben continued to move his hips gently the whole time, maintaining his erection. Finally, we became quiet, our hands running gently over each other’s bodies. I reached down and released the suspenders from one of my stockings, and he helped me slide my knickers off one leg. I brought my legs up around his waist. He groaned, kissing me deeply and pressing his hips down harder. We began to move together, perfectly in time, dancing to the same tune. I held him to me tightly, our bodies completely pressed together, our tongues delving into each other’s mouths as his cock drove into me, deep and deeper still. Our breath came together in gasps, moans of pleasure escaping us both with each thrust of our hips.

I was very close to coming. “Ben, I, I—“ my climax slammed into me, snatching the words away, wave after wave of pleasure overwhelming me as Ben’s hips gained speed, racing to follow me over the precipice. I cried out, not caring who heard.

“Ophelia!” he gasped as he too came, the duvet by my head clutched in his fists, his body pressing down into mine.

As I got my breath back, I stroked his hair. “Well, Ben,” I whispered in his ear. “Was that meant to set the tone for our vacation?”

He raised his head and gave me a grin that managed to be both cocky and tired, one ridiculous eyebrow aloft. “If you like.”

“I like,” I told him, cradling his head to my chest again. “Oh, yes, I like.”

Later, after we had changed into robes and unpacked, I sat down at the little table by the window, gazing out at the lovely grounds below. Feeling as if I were being watched, I turned to find Benedict studying me intently.

“I used to paint,” he said, seemingly out of the blue. I waited. “Seeing you there, like that, makes me want to paint you.”

“Like what?” I asked, resting my chin on one hand and returning his gaze.

“Disheveled. Satisfied. Just fucked.” I blushed. He smiled. “This room is so ornate, so formal. And you look so…” he searched for words. “Sexy. Violated. Not violated,” he hastened to correct himself as my eyebrows rose. “Just…it’s so obvious you just had sex. Really thorough sex.” He grinned. “And you have done, haven’t you?”

I gave him a slow smile. “I certainly have.” I frowned. “Do you really want to paint me?”

“Yes, someday. Why the frown?” He crossed the room and sat with me at the table, holding one of my hands and rubbing a thumb across the back of it absently.

“I’ve done a bit of modeling,” I said, and his eyes widened. “It was a long time ago,” I hastened to add. “While I was at uni. It was good pocket money.”

“What, nude?” he asked, seeming a little taken aback. I wondered at his apparent shock, since he never seemed the slightest bit hesitant to get his kit off for a role, whether stage or film.

“I think the art school assumes that the student can easily come across cloth to practise drawing,” I told him dryly. “Whereas nude subjects might be a bit harder to come by, depending on the attractiveness of the student.” I smiled with him when he relaxed a bit at my flippancy. “What I was going to say was, any position becomes uncomfortable after about 45 minutes. I used to have bruises just from the pressure of a chair edge against my leg.”

“Well,” he said, “I’ll just have to give you frequent rests. I can’t imagine spending 45 minutes alone in a room with you naked and not ravishing you, anyway.”

“I should hope not,” I teased, poking him in the ribs.

He smiled, one of those sunny ones that made his eyes crinkle at the outer corners, that it was impossible to see and not smile back. “You should know by now that I find you irresistible.”

“Oh, Benedict.” I dipped my head, embarrassed, hiding the rising blush in my cheeks. I still couldn’t get used to his frank adoration. He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen, let alone met, and he thought I was irresistible?

“”Oh, Benedict,” what?” he teased, ducking his head to try to catch my eyes as he lifted my chin with one finger.

“Oh, Benedict…” I began, rising from my seat. “Last one in the whirlpool has to sleep in the wet spot!” I darted from the table and into the enormous bathroom, locking the door behind me. I knew that when I finally opened the door, Benedict would exact a sweet revenge on me for my little game, most likely in the whirlpool.

The door rattled as Ben discovered it was locked. “Ophelia! Ophelia, open the door!” he called.

“What?” I shouted, turning on the taps for the whirlpool. “I can’t hear you with the water running!” The tub was very deep, with a moulded bench running around the interior, and the view out the curved bank of windows over it was astounding. I dumped in some bath salts as Ben banged upon the door.

“Come on, now,” he implored. I glanced at the tub, which was now half-full. I hung my robe on a hook and flipped the door latch. I hopped into the tub as the door flew open, revealing a very bemused Benedict. He waggled his eyebrows at me, first one high, and then the other, and twirled an imaginary moustache. “There you are, my pretty,” he purred in a voice that managed to be both soothing and menacing at the same time. “You can’t get away now.”

“What are you, every villain cliché ever filmed?” I giggled at him.

He grinned. “Any particular villain you’d like?” he asked as he dropped his robe on the floor.

“Um, sorry, what was the question?” I asked him. My brain still froze up at the sight of him nude. There wasn’t a thing about him I would change. My fingers itched to touch him again. I didn’t think he realized the effect he had on me, and he assumed I was goofing when I lost my train of thought.

He slid into the water, turning off the taps and pushing the button that turned on the jets. “Is there a movie villain who turns you on?”

“Well,” I mused as he knelt on the floor of the tub and took me in his arms. “There’s always Dracula.”

Ben appraised me thoughtfully. “Any particular Dracula?”

 _Where was he going with this?_ I wondered. “Um, I haven’t seen them all, I’m sure. Frank Langella’s Dracula was pretty sexy.”

“A fine choice,” Ben agreed. “Though it’s hard to play Dracula in a bathtub.” With that, he lunged for my neck.

I shrieked, instinctively pushing him away.“Stop it, Ben!” I splashed him, and pushed again. “No vampires in the tub. It’s a new rule.” I frowned, rubbing my neck.

“Oh, darling, I’m sorry. I was only playing.” He sat next to me on the bench, pulling me into his lap. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” I agreed that he hadn’t. “Will you look at that view? I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like it from a bathtub.” I relaxed and followed his gaze out the window. The whole of the castle grounds stretched before us, manicured lawns and gardens and beautiful architecture. The sun was starting to set behind the hills in the distance. I agreed that it wasn’t what I usually saw while bathing.

“As amazing as that sunset is, I much prefer the view right here,” he murmured in my ear. He replaced his voice with his lips, nibbling my earlobe and then continuing down my neck to my shoulder. As he slid me off his lap and onto my knees on the bench, he added, “Why don’t you watch the sunset, and I’ll watch you.” As I opened my mouth to protest, he moved my body sideways on the bench until I straddled the water jet that must have been behind him when he sat down. My words were lost in a yelp as the feeling of the water against my clit turned my legs to jelly. I grabbed at the edge of the tub for support as Ben folded himself over me, fitting his slim torso to my back, his cock nestled between my buttocks. “Do you like that?” he hummed in my ear. I nodded, unable to speak. “Will it make you come?” I moaned and nodded again. “Well then,” he said, and pulled back enough to gently guide his cock inside me, being careful not to move me away from the water jet. His next words didn’t make sense at first: “Tell me what you see.”

“Sorry, what?” I managed to sputter.

“Describe the sunset, the castle grounds, whatever you see.”

“Why?” My voice was shaky. The pounding of the water on my clit was relentless, and the feeling of Ben all around me: his cock inside me, his hips snugged up to my arse, his chest on my back, his breath in my ear, one of his talented hands running over my body, made it impossible to think about anything else, let alone talk about it.

“So I can hear you fall apart, darling. I love it when you lose control—when I make you lose control. I want to hear you desperately trying to hold it together, and the sounds you’ll make when you fail.” Despite the fact that he hadn’t used a single vulgar term or referenced any body parts, this was the sexiest, dirtiest thing I had ever heard him say. My breath hitched.

“You won’t get the chance,” I panted out, feeling on the edge of orgasm already. “I’m so close now.” Suddenly the delicious pulsing of the water was gone. I opened my eyes to find that Ben had blocked it with his hand.

“I’ll just have to make this take a little longer, then.” I could hear the smile in his voice, his delight in having complete control of my body, my reactions. “Tell me what you see,” he said again, his hips rocking us gently in the water.

“The sky is orange, yellow, and pink, shading to blue higher up,” I started, and he moved his hand out of the water and claimed my right breast. The twin sensations of the return of the pulsing jet on my clit and his clever fingers tweaking my nipple made me gasp and scattered my thoughts. “God, yes!” I moaned.

“Keep talking, naughty girl,” Ben breathed in my ear, “or I’ll put my hand in the water again.”

I moaned. “The hills are green,” I managed before my eyes closed from the overload of sensation. The jet disappeared again.

“Open your eyes. Describe what you see,” he whispered urgently.

“The castle walls are covered in ivy, the lawns look freshly mown,” I stammered. The jet returned, and I jerked. “There’s a red flag on the—on the–oh, god, Ben, I—“ I came, clenching around him, crying out wordlessly. Whether he had already been close, or his little game inflamed him, Ben needed only a half dozen strokes before he found his orgasm, holding me to him tightly and moaning my name into the back of my neck. We relaxed back into the still-warm water, limbs tangled together.

“Next time we make love, I should make you recite something and see how you like it,” I told him wryly.

“Fine by me,” he answered smoothly, leaning back, his hands behind his head. “How about _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock?_ ”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benedict meets Ophelia's family, names and twins are discussed, Benedict has a shave.

The first weekend in July was my parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary, and my sisters and I were throwing them a party at their home near Dorking. This would the first time Benedict would meet most of my family members, though he’d met my sister Beatrice briefly a few weeks ago, when she’d visited me in London. I wasn’t really worried, since Ben charmed everyone he met, and my family was pretty easy to get along with. I was a bit concerned that my grandmother would ask him outright whether he planned to marry me and father some children. In her opinion, I was an old maid, unmarried at 33. Never mind that I was a cardiologist: marriage and children were the only life goals that mattered in her eyes. I was used to her comments, but I didn’t want Benedict to feel uncomfortable.

The weather cooperated, and the party went very well. I spent most of the time making sure the caterers kept the food trays full and my older relatives were taken care of. Ben seemed to be doing fine, giving me a reassuring wave whenever I sent him a questioning look. I saw him speaking with Grandmother, but I didn’t see any warning signs, and they were both smiling. As the party was winding down, Ben and I were sitting on folding chairs a little apart from everyone, watching the children kick a ball about. Ben was trying to get everyone’s relationship to me straight in his head.

“So, Albert and Joseph are your uncles on your mother’s side, and Portia is your father’s sister. Your twin sisters are Beatrice and Juliet—wait,” he said. “You’re kidding, right? Your parents gave you all names from Shakespearean plays?”

“Yes,” I sighed. “Gertrude claims we took up all the good names before she came along.” I hesitated a second, then plunged on. “I was a twin, too, actually. I—we had a brother.”

“Oh,” said Ben, putting his arm around me. “What happened to him?”

“He was born with a heart defect, one that they couldn’t fix in those days. They can now, sometimes.” I looked at my lap. “He only lived for nine days. I don’t know how my parents went on.”

“They went on for you,” he said, kissing my temple. “And for Beatrice and Juliet as well. What was his name? Mercutio?”

Ben’s joke had its intended effect, and I smiled. “No, it was George, after Father,” I said. “My parents are eccentric, not insane.”

Ben laughed so hard that everyone else came over to see what they’d missed.

Later, when we had checked into our room at Claremont Cottage, Ben pulled me from the task of unpacking into a bear hug.

“What was that for?” I asked him.

“That was for telling me about George,” he said. “I imagine it must make you sad to think of him.”

“I sometimes used to be terribly jealous of my sisters,” I admitted. “I felt cheated. They had each other, and I should have had George. Then Gertrude came along when I was seven, and I realized that being a twin is the exception, not the rule. Well, except in my family.” Beatrice and Juliet had both gone on to give birth to twins. I was sure that no one would be surprised if I did as well. I was starting to get a little uneasy with the direction of this conversation, since Ben and I hadn’t discussed our thoughts on children at all yet, and I had no idea what he thought about it. It seemed too serious a topic to bring up this early in our relationship. I decided to change the subject.

“I heard that this is a beautiful place to walk about. Let’s go—I need to walk off some of that party food. You can tell me what Grandmother said that made you smile so much.” I tugged on his hand to hurry him out the door. He looked as if he were about to protest, then shrugged and followed me down the stairs and out into the late afternoon sunshine.

The next morning I awoke to find the coverlet thrown back and Ben’s side of the bed empty. I heard him puttering about in the bathroom, quietly humming a tune. I stole silently out of bed and crept to the doorway of the bath. I loved watching Ben do everyday things when he didn’t know I was there. He was standing at the sink, running hot water into the basin. A white towel clung to his hips, and he wriggled his toes in the fluffy bathmat as he rummaged about in his kit for his razor. The mirror was hazy with steam, so I didn’t think he’d notice me just yet. He turned off the tap, and then lathered the lovely planes of his face with shaving cream. Only then did he use a towel to clear the mirror, and he started when he caught sight of me peeking around the corner of the doorway. He raised his eyebrows at me without turning around and started to shave with slow, even strokes. I giggled as he made silly faces to stretch the skin taut for the razor, his elegant fingers helping along. He craned his neck to shave under his chin, and the sheer length of it made me long to kiss it. My eyes continued their survey down his body: his strong shoulders, the smooth skin of his toned back, dotted with freckles and little moles I was determined to memorise, the delicious curve of his arse under the towel, the muscular calves below, his long toes clutching the bath mat as he leaned forward to get closer to the mirror. My eyes traveled back up the delectable length of him to find that he had finished shaving, and his eyes were regarding me in the mirror.

“I’m starting to feel like I’m in a shop window,” he joked, remnants of shaving cream dotting his face, hiding behind his ears.

“I’m definitely interested in what I see on display,” I smirked back. “Might I convince you that being squeaky clean isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?”

“You do know that we need to be downstairs in the next 45 minutes if we want any breakfast, don’t you? I planned to wake you right after I finished my shave.” His words may have sounded like a refusal, but his eyes and his cock gave a different answer.

“You do know that it’s very, very difficult to hide your feelings when you’re wearing nothing but a towel, don’t you?” I returned archly, turning back to the bedroom.

He followed, as I‘d known he would, the towel discarded. He caught my arm and turned me to face him. “I’m only saying we have to be quick,” he said breathlessly as his mouth met mine.

I moaned. “We can do that,” I answered, wrapping my hand around his cock and backing towards the bed.

“Yes,” he crooned into my mouth, crowding me until I hit the bed. He tore my nightgown off over my head, claiming my breasts with his hands and mouthing my throat. I wrapped my legs around his waist as he leaned forward, pushing me back on the mattress. He reached down between us and ran a finger between my legs, making me gasp, dipping inside me to find that I was wet enough for him to plunge in his cock right away. Still standing, he leaned back enough to take my right leg and pass it in front of him, turning me onto my left side and presenting my arse. He brought his face down to mine again, kissing me deeply as his right hand came up between my legs and found my clit. He pounded himself into me, his hips producing a loud slap as they hit my arse, the squeaking bedsprings a counterpoint I was sure could be heard in the rooms below. I clutched at his left arm, which supported his weight on the bed, and ran my free hand over his chest, up his long, long neck, to curl in his dark hair, still wet from the shower. My fingers spread the shaving cream he’d neglected to wipe from behind his right ear, and I smiled. I loved that I could distract him so readily.

“You feel so good.” Ben’s voice was low, caressing me as surely as his hand. “I love being inside you. I’ll never get enough.” His gorgeous eyes were locked on mine, the intensity of his gaze overwhelming. I wanted to hold on to this moment forever.

I cupped his face in my hand, tracing his cheekbone with my thumb. My climax was building, and I was losing the ability to think as his fingers continued their skillful dance between my legs. I knew he could read my body as I tensed and my breath quickened, since both his fingers and his hips gained speed. I came, throwing my head back and gasping his name, my hand clutching blindly and gripping his shoulder. He must have been holding back, for he came immediately as well, his right hand squeezing my thigh, his eyes clenched tight, his body shuddering as he pulsed inside me. He collapsed on top of me, boneless. I heard him chuckle in my ear.

“They’ve probably realized downstairs that we’ll be late for breakfast.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Benedict's birthday!

Benedict’s birthday was approaching, and I was thrilled that it fell during a break in filming. I wondered whether shooting had been scheduled that way on purpose, but I wasn’t sure that Martin’s schedule didn’t take precedence. Either way, I was glad that Benedict would be in London and not working on that day. It was, however, a Tuesday, so I had to work. At least I wasn’t on call, I reminded myself. Our evening would be free, I had taken the next day off, and we both had most of the weekend free. Unfortunately, Benedict had to be in Cardiff again on Monday morning, ready to start filming the A Scandal in Belgravia, the first episode of season two of Sherlock. I was trying to be grateful for what we got, but it had seemed lately like the Fates were conspiring to keep us apart. Conflicting schedules, busy nights on call, family obligations: it seemed there was always something cropping up and preventing us from spending uninterrupted time together. I supposed it made us value the time we were together more, but sometimes it seemed as if it were due to malicious intent. Despite the fact that Sherlock filming had moved to London, in the month since our trip to Amberley Castle we had only managed to spend the night together three times, including our stay in Dorking. Every evening I was free, Ben had a night shoot. When Ben was free, I was on call, and it seemed like every tosser in London waited until my duty rounds to throw a coronary. I was actually starting to get a reputation at the hospital as a “black cloud,” a person who is bad news walking. The patients did as well as expected, but there were a lot more of them than usual. Evidently Ben and I had chemistry together that was so hot, it made everyone in the vicinity’s heart beat faster. Either that, or we had pissed off some minor deity, perhaps Ron, the God of Arterial Occlusion.

On Ben’s birthday, we had planned dinner out with a small group of friends, and afterward we were all going to see Benedict’s friend David Tennant in _Much Ado About Nothing._ I was really looking forward to the whole evening, but especially the end, when Benedict and I would finally get to be alone. I had a special surprise for him, and I was a bit nervous about it, despite being absolutely certain he would be thrilled.

After the show, which was brilliant, we went out for a drink with David and Georgia. They didn’t want to stay out too late, though, as David was knackered, and Georgia didn’t want to be away from baby Olive for long. While the boys were engrossed in a rather animated discussion about rugby, I had a short conversation with her about what it felt like to be a mother. She gave my arm a squeeze. “You’ll make a wonderful mother,” she said quietly, throwing a quick glance at Ben. “Really, don’t worry about it. You will.” I tried to insist that I wasn’t even thinking about that yet, but she gave me a knowing smile. “You’re in love, and you’re over thirty, of course you’re thinking about it.”

“Thinking about what?” David asked.

“Girl stuff,” Georgia told him pointedly, and I laughed at Ben’s baffled expression.  


It was good to have a friend I could trust. Most of my friends were certain that Benedict would meet some beautiful starlet or model and discard me like a used tissue. The more I insisted that he loved me, the more they accused me of being deluded. I wondered what they thought he had to gain by stringing me along for months and months, and why they thought that just because he was an actor, his motives were suspect. It was as if they thought he wasn’t a real person, only an amalgam of characters from his body of work. I hoped that, with time, my friends would come to see Ben as he really was.

When Ben and I got back to his flat, he seemed pensive, preoccupied. I put on some soft music, and we began to slow dance in our stocking feet in the middle of the living room. I looked into his eyes, and though he seemed more relaxed, I still saw a little strain there.

“It’s your birthday,” I said softly. “What’s on your mind?”

He sighed. “I can’t hide anything from you, can I?”

“Not when it’s written all over your face,” I replied, stroking his cheek.

He stayed silent for a long moment, his eyes searching my face. I wished I knew what he was looking for, so that I could give it to him. I wanted to give him everything: my body, certainly, but also my heart, my time, my devotion. I wanted to give him children, but I didn’t even know if he wanted them. I had been too afraid to bring up the subject. I had just gotten used to the idea that our relationship was serious, and that we were in love. I hadn’t found the right time to discuss it yet.

“Spending time tonight with David and Georgia…it reminded me of something I want, and I’ve been afraid to ask you, because if you say no, I might lose you. You might go away and leave me.” There were tears standing in his eyes, and as I watched, one escaped to roll down his cheek. I captured it with one finger and brought it to my lips.

“Is this about…” I was terrified that I was wrong, that I was barking up the entirely wrong tree, that I’d look like an idiot. I started again. “Do you want…” I finally spit it out: “Children?”

“Yes!” It came out as a sob, the release of tension built up inside of him, the dam breaking. He clutched me to him, the music forgotten, and wept into my hair.

“Ben, Ben, stop.” I extricated myself from his arms enough to look him in the face. “I thought I told you I wanted a family someday. Remember, on our first date? Right before I got spooked and scarpered? Ben?” He was trying to avoid my eyes, embarrassed. I finally got him to look at me. “Yes, I want children. Actually, that’s what Georgia and I were talking about while you and David were talking. I was asking her what it’s like, being someone’s mum. She said it’s the hardest and best thing she’s ever done.” I smiled. “You know I like a challenge.”

He smiled through his tears, and sniffled. “I was afraid you wouldn’t want to take any time from your career to have babies,” he said.

“And I was afraid you didn’t want babies at all. So much for our communication skills, right? Sit down, you silly git.” That got a bigger smile from him, and he wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. “Now that’s sorted, I have something else for your birthday.” I had given him a cashmere scarf, but I had put a lot more time and effort into this gift. I had taken elocution lessons, which I had never before considered, but seemed necessary to do this right.

He sat on the couch with a puzzled look. I sat next to him, took his hands, looked into his pale blue eyes, now red-rimmed from crying, and began.

“If thou must love me, let it be for nought  
Except for love's sake only. Do not say  
'I love her for her smile—her look—her way  
Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought  
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought  
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'—  
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may  
Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought,  
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for  
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,—  
A creature might forget to weep, who bore  
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!  
But love me for love's sake, that evermore  
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.”

Again tears rolled down his cheeks, though this time a grin split his face wider than I’d ever seen. He drew me into his arms, holding me tight. “Darling,” he whispered. “That was lovely. You’re lovely.” His lips found mine in a sweet kiss. “I love you completely.”

“Let’s go to bed,” I murmured against his lips, “and you can show me.”

“Mmm,” he murmured appreciatively, his voice low. “Indeed I shall. And we can practice making babies.”

I smirked at him, standing and tugging on his hand so he’d follow me. “You know what they say,” I teased.

“Practice makes perfect!” we said in unison as he scooped me up and dashed for the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Ophelia recites to Benedict is Sonnet 14 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benedict receives an impromptu additional birthday gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning: mild consensual bondage (perhaps a spoiler but I don't want to upset anyone who doesn't want to read that)

“May I ask for one more present for my birthday?” Benedict’s voice was honey in my ear, soft and low as he set me gently on the bed and lay down beside me. He was undressing me as he spoke, his clever fingers working zippers and buttons and hooks with ease.

“Anything,” I breathed. “You know I can’t refuse you anything.” I had his shirt buttons open by now, his shirt pushed down to his elbows. I loved his shoulders, the lines of his collarbones, the hollow where they met.

He slid off the shirt and looked up at me though his lashes, face tilted down. His gaze was pure lust. “I want you to tie me up and ride me, let me watch you above me, but not be able to touch you. I want to give you control over me, completely. Please.”

The image of what he would look like, hands tied to the headboard, writhing underneath me flashed into my mind and took my breath away, as I felt the heat grow between my legs. He was opening the drawer of the nightstand, pulling out a pair of fur-lined leather cuffs that I knew had not been there the last time I’d looked. He smiled shyly at me, offering them to me, his face flushed with arousal.

I took the cuffs from him and knelt on the bed in my knickers, my breasts bare. “Lie down,” I commanded. “On your back, arms over your head.” He reached for his belt buckle. “No,” I ordered him. “Just do exactly as I said.”

His eyebrows rose, and I watched a wicked smile bloom on his face. He did as he was told. I tucked a pillow under his head and made sure that he was comfortable, and then used the cuffs to secure his wrists to the bed. I made sure he could only lift his arms a few centimetres off the mattress. He was already breathing hard just from being restrained as I knelt between his thighs and coolly surveyed him.

“You want to give me control then, do you?” I asked softly.

“Yes, mistress,” he said, just as quietly, his voice steady, his eyes on mine.

“Oh, I like that,” I said approvingly. “As you wish. Would you like a safeword?”

His face showed surprise, perhaps that I knew of such things, but he shook his head. “No, mistress.”

“Very well, then,” I said. “Let’s begin.” I unbuckled his belt and slid his trousers off, removing his socks as well, but leaving his sleek and sexy black pants. I let him wait while I dimmed the lights, returning to the bed to lay down on top of him, fitting my body to his and kissing him deeply. I let my hands run over his naked chest and shoulders, following his tethered arms up to the cuffs, trying to put my intention of driving him to the edge, of making him beg, into my actions. When I suddenly slithered down his body to rest my face on the cloth covering his rock hard cock, he gasped, panting as though he’d just run ten kilometres.

“Oh, God yes,” he breathed.

I placed my mouth over the head of his cock, feeling him though the cloth. There was a damp spot starting there already. I breathed out, letting him feel the heat, but not adding any friction. His hips bucked as he reached for more sensation. I took my mouth away. “No,” I chastised him. “I say when you get more.” He moaned.

I stood up on the mattress to remove my knickers, tossing them into a corner. I stepped over his body, placing my feet to either side of his chest, then knelt with my groin over his throat, out of reach of his mouth. He stared up at me wildly, eyes glazed with lust and excitement, neck straining. I traced the contours of the muscles that tensed in his arms before returning my attention to his face.

“Do you want to taste me?” I asked him.

He licked his lush, full lips. “Yes, mistress, please,” he replied, the need in his eyes matching his beseeching tone.

“You may,” I granted him. “Make me come, and I’ll reward you.” I shifted forward, straddling his face and taking hold of the headboard for support. Other times Ben had licked me in this position, he had been the one in control, with a vise grip on my hips. This time I would control everything.

Benedict lapped between my legs as if it were his last chance ever. I didn’t want to come too soon, so several times I lifted my hips higher, out of his reach, and he strained his neck to try to get to me. The whole lower half of his face was soaked with my juices and his saliva, from rubbing his face into me when I relaxed the grip of my thighs enough to allow him freedom to move his head side to side. Finally I ground my hips down onto his mouth so hard I feared he wouldn’t be able to breathe. He moaned and writhed almost as much as I did, and even when I came, shouting his name, he didn’t want to stop. I slid down his torso, leaving a wet trail as I went, and knelt again between his thighs. I left his face wet, a minor cruelty, I thought.

By now, his pants were soaked through with pre-come, and the slightest touch anywhere made him jump. “Please,” he begged. “Please touch me, mistress. Please!”

I removed his pants, slowly, continuing to torture him with anticipation. I kissed my way back up his muscular legs, spending quite a bit of time on his inner thighs, almost, but not quite, touching his balls. By now he was struggling, and his entreaties were mixed with curses. “For God’s sake, Ophelia, please! Why won’t you touch me? Oh, fuck, it hurts!” The sound of his voice, raw and breaking, was driving me crazy. While I wanted to release him from his torment, I didn’t want this to end. I reminded myself that this was _his_ request. He obviously wanted this sweet torture, and the best gift I could give him would be to make it last for a while longer.

I crawled up his body, hovering over him on all fours, not touching him at any point. I looked down on his beautiful face, such a mess with my juices drying around his mouth and tears leaking from his eyes, running toward his ears. His mouth was open, those succulent lips puffy from eating me, and, I suspected, from biting them to keep from crying out more than he already had. I claimed his mouth in a possessive, searing kiss, ending it to murmur against his lips. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, mistress, please, please, please,” he whispered breathlessly back, eyes closed.

“That’s too bad,” I told him in the same controlled tone. “You’ll just have to wait.” His sharp inhalation, eyes flying open, pupils dilating, told me that I had made the right choice. I returned to my contemplation of his cock as he groaned and jerked against his bonds. Without warning, I sucked him in, swirling my tongue around his shaft.

“Christ!” he shouted. “Oh god, don’t stop!” So of course, I stopped, sliding his cock out of my mouth and holding it firmly but unmoving in my hand. His hips stuttered, seeking after the lost sensation. “Fuck!” His head was thrown back, and he spoke breathlessly to the headboard. “I can’t take any more. Please, mistress.”

“You can, and you will,” I purred, and swallowed him down again. I was confident that I could tell by now when Ben was close to orgasm. I didn’t want him to come in my mouth this time. I was, after all, giving him what he’d asked for, and I knew he wanted to watch me ride him as he lay helpless beneath me. I teased him by stopping and starting a few more times, as well as driving him mad with too-gentle licks and caresses when he wanted heat and friction. His demands for more grew louder, coarser, and more forceful.

When he snarled, “I swear, when I get free I will fuck you so hard you won’t walk straight for a week!” I straddled his hips and impaled myself on his now-purple cock in one swift movement. He gave an inarticulate shout, his hips rising to meet mine. My knees lost contact with the mattress, and I almost fell. He could not have been buried any deeper inside me, yet it seemed like it wasn’t enough for him.

“I am in control, and if you do that again, I’ll make you wait some more,” I told him sternly, though the last thing I wanted to do was stop. “Do you understand, Benedict?”

“Yes, mistress,” he said shakily, eyes closed. He drew a deep breath, and then opened his eyes as he released it. “May I gaze upon you, mistress?” _He’s really playing this to the hilt,_ I thought. _I had no idea he wanted to be dominated like this._ His request had been quite a surprise. I had certainly been on top before, but our lovemaking was largely equal, reciprocal, first one in control and then yielding to the other. He had held me down during sex, but he hadn’t approached the idea of actual bondage until tonight. I resolved to make sure that I would get my turn in those cuffs sooner or later…hopefully sooner.

“You may.” I began to move my hips, both hands on my breasts, then snaking my right hand down to rub my clit. Benedict moaned, his hips bucking. I kept my rocking even and gentle, the better to concentrate on what my hands were doing. Eventually, I came, writhing on top of him, head thrown back, squeezing his cock inside me. “Oh God, that’s so good,” I heard him gasp. I decided to torture him a little more before allowing him release.

“Do you remember what you did to me on our holiday?” I asked him, still rocking gently on his cock.

“Yes, mistress.” His voice rumbled low.

“You will now recite _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ for my amusement.”

He threw his head back and groaned, “Oh god.” He took a deep breath. “Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table—oh!” His eyes flew open as I squeezed his cock inside me. He was a little too coherent for my liking. I started moving more on top of him, lifting myself higher on my knees before sliding back down onto his cock, leaning back a little with my hands on his thighs.

I smiled at him. “Go on.”

“Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,” he continued shakily, the sibilants sounding muddied. I continued to dance above him, squeezing hard on the upstroke, relaxing as I came down again. “The muttering retreats…Of restless nights…in one-night cheap hotels—“ _Is that a lisp?_ I wondered. _I’ve never heard him sound like that before._ “And sawdust…restaurants with…oyster-shells…Streets—“ _Yes, definitely a lisp._ “I can’t,” he pleaded, “I can’t…take any more. Please.” His eyes beseeched me to let him stop reciting and allow him to come. I realized that this time, he meant it.

Usually when I rode him, we held hands, palm to palm, and he took my weight on his elbows, giving me something to brace against. With his hands tied, I couldn’t think of a way to generate the force I wanted while facing forward. I came up on my knees, disengaging myself from his cock, and he sputtered. “What—Ophelia—“ His words were lost in a groan as I turned around and resettled myself atop him, this time facing away, his cock once again buried deep inside me. I leaned forward enough to put my hands on his thighs, and began to ride him in earnest, grinding and swivelling my hips down onto him, faster and faster. Because I held his thighs down, he couldn’t move his hips very much, adding to his lack of control. “God, yes, fuck me, yes, yes, yes!” he called out, getting louder and louder. As I predicted, it didn’t take much time before he was coming with a raw shout of release that I feared would result in hoarseness, but luckily he wasn’t working for a few more days. I stopped moving when his orgasm ended, and waited for him to soften before climbing off of him.

Benedict was lying still, eyes closed, no longer struggling against his restraints, which I quickly untied. His wrists were unmarked, though it was obvious from his wince that his shoulders were sore. As his breathing evened out, he took me in his arms and opened his eyes. “My love,” he whispered. “Thank you. That was perfect.” He was slurring his words, wrung out and drunk on endorphins.

“My pleasure. Happy birthday,” I said, kissing his nose as he dropped off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benedict gets personal in an interview. Mayhem ensues.

_The Telegraph_ sat on my desk, a photo of Benedict smiling out at me. I, however, was not smiling. I was fuming.

  
  
**“Broody” Benedict still waiting**   
  


“I have wanted children for a long time. I don’t know that my girlfriend is quite ready for that yet. And I’m so busy with work, it doesn’t seem like the right time.” Benedict declined to give us the name of his new lady love, but sources close to the couple have revealed that she is a London physician, and say that the relationship is quite serious.

There was a second photo in the middle of the article, showing Benedict and me leaving a restaurant. I could tell that it had been taken last week by what I was wearing. My face was turned three-quarters away from the camera, making me difficult to identify, although someone who knew me would probably recognise me.

The office had already received several phone calls from journalists looking to speak to me. I had no idea how they knew I was Benedict’s girlfriend. Perhaps they were ringing up every single, thirty-something female physician in London. Perhaps someone had actually recognised me from that photo, or the “sources close to the couple” had provided my name. Once I figured out who that was, he or she would no longer be “close to the couple.” I had declined to accompany Benedict to any public events so far, afraid of the scrutiny of the media and his fans, and eager to avoid exactly this problem, of his fame intruding on my work.

After one journalist got put through to me by claiming to be a patient with a question, I had the staff crosscheck anyone who asked to speak to me directly against the patient database. Those not found there were shunted into the automated system and eventually dumped into a new voice mailbox, which would be ignored and deleted. I was annoyed at the extra work this required of my staff.

I called a staff meeting when the office closed for lunch, promising to take no more than five minutes. The food I’d ordered for everyone sat at the front of the room.

“First, I want to confirm for everyone who’s wondering: Yes, I am dating Benedict Cumberbatch.” A murmur travelled through the room. “I want to thank everyone for all their diligence in protecting my privacy, and apologise for any extra work that has caused. I’ve ordered in lunch as a small way to show my appreciation.” Another murmur. “If, however, any of my personal information reaches the press, and I can confirm the leak was from someone in this office, I will not hesitate to sack the responsible party. Have I been clear?” There was a general noise of assent. “Any questions?”

One wide-eyed young receptionist raised a trembling hand. “Yes, Elizabeth?” I said.

“Um, well, I’m a huge fan of Benedict’s, and, well…” Many of the other staffers were grinning at her by this point. “Um, could you please get me an autograph?”

I smiled. “Yes, fine. If you have something you want signed, bring it in. Any more questions?” There were none. I let everyone have lunch in peace, grabbing a sandwich to take back to my office, though I wasn’t hungry. My stomach was roiling and a headache was starting behind my left eye. It’s a good thing I didn’t want to eat, because I wouldn’t have gotten the chance: Roger Frye, the founder of the cardiology practice, waylaid me in the hallway and beckoned me into his office instead.

“I’ll get right to the point, Phil. This business with the papers isn’t seemly. I don’t want to see you dragged through the mud.” He sat in his big leather chair, his fingers tented under his chin, looking superior. Roger was rather old fashioned, and he was still uncomfortable that half of the practice’s physicians were female. We did crazy, unpredictable things like chat with the staff, bring in flowers for the waiting room, and take maternity leaves. “Do you really think that stepping out with an actor—he said “actor” as though he were saying, “ditch digger”—“helps portray a professional image? I’m concerned about how this will reflect on you. I don’t want to see your personal life to get in the way of your work obligations.” Of course he meant he was concerned about the practice’s image, not mine. It occurred to me to wonder when the last time people actually used the term “stepping out.”

I gaped at him. I had enough on my plate without being subtly threatened by my boss for my personal relationship choices. I wasn’t taking drugs or driving while intoxicated. I was dating a person of moderate celebrity. And he was an actor, not a criminal.

“Roger,” I began with barely suppressed fury, “I am doing everything in my power to keep my personal life and my professional life separate. Whom I date—male, female, actor, doctor, or auto mechanic—is absolutely no business of yours and has not affected my work in any way. If you believe that you have grounds to threaten me because I may get mentioned in the newspapers, I suggest you consult your barrister. I’m sure he’ll put you to rights.” Not waiting for a rebuttal, I turned on my heel, stalked back to my office, and shut the door. I hoped that my mention of a barrister would make Roger realise that he could be subject to legal action for firing me just for appearing in the tabloids. I realised that I had left my sandwich sitting on the corner of his desk. No matter. I wasn’t hungry anyway. It seemed much more likely that I would be sick.

I was too upset to speak with Benedict now, and we were both working. We had already arranged to meet that evening for supper at Black’s. I decided not to call him, but to save my complaint until after dinner, when we could go to one of our flats and be alone. I certainly didn’t want to air any dirty laundry in public. That was the whole point. I knew that eventually my identity would become public knowledge to anyone who cared, though why they would care I couldn’t see. I certainly didn’t care about the private lives of celebrities, but evidently many people did, and it meant a lot of money to the tabloid papers. I meant to keep as much of our relationship private as possible. The fact that Benedict had talked to a reporter about wanting children, and that he didn’t know if I was ready yet, felt like a betrayal. That was a personal matter, and I didn’t need Benedict’s fans to have an opinion on it. Worse, he had never mentioned his concerns about his work getting in the way of parenting to me, although it was true that we hadn’t talked about children at all after agreeing that we both wanted them someday. I just felt like he had shared with the world private thoughts that he should only share with me.

The rest of the day passed in a blur, and Roger avoided me, once actually turning on his heel in the hallway and pretending he had forgotten something back in his office. There was no change in demeanour in the rest of the staff, though one of the receptionists told me, at the end of the day, that they had blocked no fewer than 35 calls. I contemplated some creative violence against the person who had provided my name to the press, if I ever found out who it was.

Expecting Benedict to be late, I arrived at Black’s fifteen minutes after our reservation time, and met him at the cloakroom. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I might have been followed from the office to the club. I couldn’t mention it without bringing the entire matter up, so I said nothing about it as we were shown to our table. I was determined to enjoy dinner and not let my bad mood show. I knew we would work this out, it would be smoothed over, and I would forgive him, but for now I was still mad as a wet hen.

Evidently there was a reason that Benedict was paid to act, and I was not, for as soon as the waiter had collected our menus and disappeared, Ben reached across the table, took my hand, and said, “Now, tell me what’s bothering you.”

I blinked. “I—I don’t want to talk about it here,” I said evasively, meaning to look at the tablecloth but meeting Ben’s eyes when he tugged on my hand.

“Alright,” he said agreeably. “Will you tell me at least whether you’re angry with me?”

I sighed. “I am angry at you,” I said, taking my hand back and fiddling with my napkin. “We need to talk.”

“I wish you would have said something before we were seated,” he said. “I’d rather get it sorted first.” He looked concerned. _He should look concerned,_ I thought, then felt a twinge of remorse. _You’re being petty,_ I told myself.

I took a deep breath. “I guess we can talk about it here. It’s not like I’m going to shout at you—although this morning, I wanted to.” One corner of my mouth twitched. “Actually, this morning I wanted to throttle you.”

“Oh, God, what did I do? Wait—did my interview in _The Telegraph_ come out today?” I nodded. He groaned. “I haven’t read it. You know, you talk to them for an hour and they print three sentences, usually out of context. What does it say?”

I pulled the clipping out of my purse and passed it to him. He read for a moment. “Oh, shit,” he said resignedly, then looked up.

“You did say that in the interview, didn’t you?” I asked. I wasn’t ready to let him off the hook yet, though I hadn’t known that there were probably more to his statements than what was in the article. “And, it’s worse than that. Evidently these “sources” have actually given up my name: journalists are calling the office, pestering my staff. I’m in hot water with Roger. He thinks the whole thing is “unseemly,” as if that means anything this century.”

“Christ,” he said, looking stricken. “I never meant to say anything like that. You see, the same journalist interviewed me before, and I had talked about wanting kids, and since Olivia and I broke up, he asked me how I felt about it now, and that’s what came out. I should have refused to answer any questions that were that personal, I know. But when I get started talking, sometimes I don’t stop when I should.”

“I felt like you told the world things you haven’t discussed with me. Like thinking you’re too busy with work to consider having children yet.” I cursed myself as a tear escaped. I hurriedly wiped it away as the sommelier brought our wine, and I gratefully took refuge behind the glass.

Benedict sighed. “That quote was from January, in _The Guardian._ Not only was I booked solid with projects, but Olivia and I were also in the middle of splitting up. I covered the real reason with another one, also true but not the main issue. Evidently, these journalists feel free to take anything you’ve ever said and reprint it, without being clear about when you said it or in what context. It’s still my fault. I need to learn what to keep to myself.”

“Okay,” I said, “there’s two issues left: what are you really thinking about having children, and who the hell gave my name to the press?”

Benedict looked thoughtful. “Well, to address the second question first, I have no idea. “Sources close to the couple” usually means anything but. It’s probably an employee, someone somewhere we patronise that knows who you are. We’ll likely never know, but they don’t have any private information about you, so you shouldn’t worry too much. No calls on your private line, right?” I agreed that all the calls had been to the practice, none to my mobile or my flat, which were unlisted, since I didn’t want patients to be able to ring me up whenever they liked.

Ben took a sip of wine. “When do I want to have children? I haven’t been thinking about it too closely. I’m just happy that you want kids too, and I figure that eventually we’ll get to the point where we need to talk about it. I know you don’t want to give up your career, so we’ll need a nanny. We can easily afford that, so I wasn’t too concerned about it. I am going to be in Belgium for most of the fall and going to New Zealand after New Year’s, so I sort of thought that we’d have to wait at least until I get back from filming _The Hobbit._ ”

I stared at him. “And you say you haven’t thought about it much?”

He laughed ruefully. “Okay, I guess I still think about it a lot. I used to want to be a dad by the time I was thirty-five. Obviously, that didn’t happen. I suppose I brood about it a bit. Seems a bit silly, now that I say it out loud. I mean, you and I still keep separate flats. Hell, we’ve only been together for three months. Olivia and I were together for nine years, off and on, before we even moved in together. Obviously I’m not recommending that as a model! What I’m trying to say is, not very clearly, I guess, is that you shouldn’t be worried about anything. I love you, and in due course I want to live with you, have children with you, marry you if you like. I know that I want to be with you, and I trust that you love me, so there doesn’t seem to be much cause to rush anything. So, will you forgive me my lapse of good judgment?” He took my hand again and kissed it.

I was completely speechless. _What was what? A pre-proposal?_

“Ophelia?” Ben was still waiting to hear whether he was forgiven.

“Um, wow,” I said, slipping my hand from his and taking a gulp of my wine. “That was…so much more than I expected, that’s all. I thought you’d just apologise, and promise to be more careful in interviews, and that would be that.” I fiddled with my fork, unsure what else to say. We were moving so fast—but I liked it. It felt a bit like a roller coaster ride, or watching a horror movie: I was scared witless, but enjoying every moment of it. Perhaps this was what it felt like to jump out of an aeroplane. I’d have to ask Ben; I knew he’d done it.

“I’ve gone and said too much again, haven’t I?” Ben looked sheepish. “Exactly what you were angry about. I can’t seem to rule my tongue, when it comes to you, anyway.”

I looked up sharply and caught the tiny smirk that said he’d meant the innuendo. I smiled. “Well, thank goodness for that,” I answered, winking at him. He started giggling, more from the release of tension than that he thought the joke was that funny, I think.

The waiter approached with our dinners. I waited to speak until after our food was served and the waiter was safely out of earshot. “I want all that too. It’s just happening so fast, it’s hard to believe sometimes.”

He was about to speak when the maitre ‘d interrupted us to whisper in Ben’s ear. He sighed and nodded, which seemed to be enough for the other man, since he simply said, “Yes, sir,” and departed again. I looked questioningly at Ben.

“One of us was followed here by a photographer,” Ben said resignedly. “We’ll leave out the side entrance. There will be a taxi waiting so we can duck right in. I’m sorry. I’m afraid this will happen more and more now that you’ve been mentioned in the press. It’s all my fault.”

“Benedict,” I said, pointing the tines of my fork at him. “Stop saying everything is all your fault. I knew what I was getting into when I decided to keep dating you after Cardiff. Now, I know people want to know whom you’re dating, and my name will come out sooner or later. I do want to start accompanying you to events when I can, even though the idea terrifies me. We need to give out only the information we want to, when we want to, instead answering whatever people ask. Your publicist should be helping you with this, right? I think that neither of you have quite realized that as you become more famous, you need to change your interview style. You need to go in knowing what you’re going to say, no matter what they ask, rather than thinking of it as a nice friendly chat. It’s what politicians do all the time.”

Benedict looked stunned. I realised I’d morphed from girlfriend into savvy professional without warning. “You’re right,” he said “Of course, you’re right.” He smiled. “Maybe you should be my publicist. I probably wouldn’t have to pay you as much as I pay Karon.”

I pantomimed throwing a roll at him. He ducked, grinning. “No,” I said, “for two reasons: One, I already have a full-time job. Two, I think you’ll find that, over time, I’m much more expensive than Karon.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’ll cost you your heart.”

He froze, not expecting so serious a statement. He fixed those pale, intense, and so, so blue eyes on mine and captured my hand for the third time that evening. “Ophelia,” he said in his rich baritone, his face serious. “I have never given anything so willingly in my life as I give you my heart.”

At that moment, I didn’t care what would be printed about me in the tabloids: this was worth it.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia's public "coming out" as Benedict's girlfriend as she accompanies him to Venice for the premiere of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy.

Why had I agreed to this again? I was in Venice with Benedict for the world premiere of _Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy._ We had chosen this as the event where I would first appear in public as “Benedict’s New Girlfriend.” I would also be meeting his fellow actors, and Benedict had insisted that I watch some of their work so that I’d have something to talk about with them at the party after the premiere. I hadn’t seen so many movies in so short a time since some friends of mine at uni had decided to have a four-day movie marathon. I was afraid I’d mix up which actor had been in which film, they were so jumbled in my head. John Hurt and Gary Oldman were the only ones who really stuck out in my mind, since I had seen some of their big films before. How could you forget the chest-bursting scene in _Alien,_ or Gary Oldman in _Dracula_? Even I had seen those.

Benedict was looking elegant in a classic black suit, though I preferred the blue vintage one he’d worn earlier in the day. I thought that the trouser cuffs on this one could be a bit longer, but I kept that to myself. When we arrived at the red carpet, Benedict started to come around the car to open my door, but he was herded away instead. I got out of the car myself, and I could not believe the sheer number of cameras. As I trailed along behind Benedict, I noticed a greater and greater number of them pointed his way, accompanied shouts of “Benedict!” I was stopped from going any further, as Ben continued onto the red carpet for photos. He stood unmoving, hands in pockets, alone on what looked like acres of red carpet. As he began to walk about, I was ushered behind the scenes to the theatre entrance, to wait for him out of the limelight. He waved, smiled, and signed autographs. He spoke briefly with an interviewer, and then headed my way, only to be nudged back onto the red carpet by Karon. Ben managed to throw me a look to let me know he’d tried before engaging his fans again. It was all very surreal, very different from my day-to-day experience with him. I knew he was recognised when we were out and about in London, but in general people understood that Ben needed his personal space. He was occasionally approached for an autograph or given a compliment, but this screaming and waving for his attention was not what I was used to seeing. I understood now why he sometimes seemed overwhelmed by his fans.

Eventually we went into the theatre, and the next hour flew by in a whirlwind of photographs and handshakes. It was a relief to finally sit down and watch the film. It was a triumph, a subtle work in this era of over-the-top cinema. Benedict stole every scene he appeared in, in my opinion anyway. I couldn’t believe that he was nervous to be working with the rest of the cast, considering them better than him.

The party afterward was less nerve-wracking, the photographers gone (mostly – someone snapped a few photos of us before we could protest). To my surprise, everyone seemed very down-to-earth. Several people inquired about my job, saying they were delighted to talk to someone who wasn’t in show business, and curious about my take on the film. It was interesting to see how a few people’s demeanour completely changed when I told them what I did. Evidently they had assumed I was some bit of fluff on Ben’s arm. I didn’t think I was pretty enough (or tall enough) to be mistaken for an escort or a party girl, but there’s no accounting for taste, I supposed.

Ben and I were among the first to leave the party, as we needed to get up early to fly back to London in the morning. Benedict was receiving the _GQ_ Actor of the Year Award the next night, so we couldn’t spend any more time in Venice. I had to get back to work, having taken several days off so that we could explore the city together before the premiere. Besides, I wanted to be there when and if my picture surfaced in the newspaper, to smooth down any accusations from Roger that it reflected badly on the practice.

Back at the hotel, Benedict was wired, manic, running on adrenaline. He chattered non-stop, reliving the day. I was just tired, and my feet hurt. I had spent an inordinate amount of time standing around in the background. I wasn’t used to being part of his entourage, relegated to the sidelines until I was allowed to approach him again. I’ll admit that my ego was a little bruised, although I knew intellectually that today was all about him. He kept talking when I went into the loo to get ready for bed, so I left the door open to let him know I was still listening. When I came out, face scrubbed clean of what felt like twelve layers of make-up and dressed in my nightie, Benedict was pacing the spacious suite, still talking—and stark naked. I stopped dead in my tracks as he turned and saw me.

“And,” he continued on conversationally, “I’m incredibly horny.” He grinned, his erection testifying to the truth of his words.

“Well,” I said dryly, eyeing him up and down. “We’d better do something about that then.” I reached down, grasped the hem of my nightie, and pulled it back off over my head, leaving me naked. Ben placed one foot on the seat of the settee between us and vaulted over it, landing in front of me and wrapping me in his arms. He kissed me hard and open-mouthed as his cock poked insistently at my belly.

“I want to be inside you, now,” he rasped in my ear, his whisper harsh with need. He licked the fingers of his right hand, and then placed them right on my clit, sliding them insistently over my most sensitive spot. My gasp became a whimper as he plunged his fingers inside me. “Are you wet enough? Are you wet enough for me? Say yes,” he commanded.

It took me a few tries to be able to form a coherent word. “Yes,” I finally managed to breathe out.

Pulling his hand away, Ben grabbed me by the waist and lifted me onto the back of the settee. Standing between my open thighs, he guided his cock into me and buried it to the hilt. If I hadn’t thrown my arms around his neck, I would have been knocked backwards by the force. Ben looked down, watching his cock ramming into me for a few thrusts, then lifted his head to kiss me again, plundering my mouth as he ravished my body. He was so worked up that he didn’t last long, coming so hard that he sank his teeth into my shoulder without realising it. As he came back to himself, he saw the marks he had left.

“Oh, fuck. I didn’t mean to do that. I’m sorry.” He looked completely mortified.

“It’s all right, I’m fine,” I reassured him, rubbing the bite. “I’m not bleeding. It doesn’t hurt.” He took a bit of convincing that I wasn’t annoyed with him.

“I’m not being a very good lover tonight,” he said into my hair as he held me. I was still sitting on the back of settee, and it was starting to dig into my arse.

“What are you talking about?” I asked him, pulling back to see his face.

“I took you with practically no foreplay, I lost control and bit you, and you haven’t come yet. That seems like nil for three, if you ask me.”

I slid down to stand in front of him. I ignored the warm trickle that started down the inside of my thigh. “Number one: You needed to work off the adrenaline, and it was totally hot. You did check whether I was wet enough, and I was. Number two: I already told you to stop apologising for biting me. Actually, I think it’s really fantastic that you can lose control so completely with me.” His eyebrows rose, considering. “As for your third point, well, we’re not asleep yet, are we?”

A slow smile I recognised as Ben’s “I’m planning something naughty” look spread across his face. “So I have a chance to redeem myself?”

I glanced at the clock. “You have exactly eight hours.”

“I’d better get started, then,” he leered at me, making me giggle. “Into bed with you!” He smacked my bum, and I jumped.

“Oi!” I said with as much indignation as I could muster. “You’re only adding to your crimes, laddyboy!”

“But I enjoy paying for them so much,” he answered, herding me toward the enormous four-poster bed. Once he’d backed me up to it, he suddenly reached down and snatched at my ankles, jerking my feet out from under me and spilling me haphazardly onto the bed. Before I could catch my breath he was on top of me, interlacing our fingers above my head and pressing me into the bed. Another searing kiss stole my words, and I moaned, loving the feel of his weight on me, the scent of his skin. He kissed down my neck, from my ear to the hollow at the base of my throat, releasing my hands so that he could run his over my breasts and belly. I writhed under his touch, losing my fingers in his thick curly hair, so much lighter than before. He smiled up at me, nuzzling one breast.

“Is it all right with you if this takes awhile, or would you rather get some sleep?” His smirk told me that he already knew my answer.

“You’re a cheeky bastard, Benedict Cumberbatch,” I told him breathlessly as he drew my nipple into his mouth. “As if I could say no to you. As if I would want to.” That earned me a look of such love that everything else—my fatigue, the soreness where he had bitten me, my irritation at being treated like scenery—melted away. I was so lucky to be loved by this man.

As Benedict continued to lavish attention on my breasts, he shifted his weight to my right thigh, allowing him to reach down between my legs with his right hand. Between my arousal and his come leaking out of me, I was very slippery already. Ben lifted my left leg at the knee, repositioning me and opening me wider. My right leg was still pinned underneath him as he continued his sweet attentions to my breasts and played with my clit at the same time. I jerked beneath him, unable to move my hips, and dug my nails into his back. He moaned at my breast, sending the vibration of his voice resonating through me. I cried out his name, trapped beneath his body, his hands, his mouth. He began to alternate strumming my clit with delving his fingers deep inside me, spreading our combined wetness everywhere, bringing me closer and closer to orgasm. So many sensations at once were overwhelming, and my shout as I came was almost a howl. When my vision cleared and the rushing in my ears subsided, Benedict was gazing at me, his head on my breast, his right hand cupping me gently between my legs.

“Have I adequately made up for my shortcomings?” he asked, lifting his head to kiss the tip of my nose.

“What shortcomings?” I slurred. “I don’t recall any shortcomings.”

He started to smile, but then winced. I followed his gaze to my shoulder. “Stop,” I told him. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m so much more than fine.” His eyes finally came back to mine. “I love you. I love that you can lose control with me. I love that you care so much how you treat me.” He nodded. “I didn’t need you to make up for biting me. I needed you to make up for how everyone else treated me all day.”

I’d lost him there. He’d been so caught up in the lights and the shouts and the adulation that he’d lost track of me and where I was. To him, I’m sure the time he spent in front of the cameras passed by in an instant. But I had spent hours today standing in the background, trying to look unobtrusive and uninteresting, yet worthy of being on his arm. Although I tried to maintain that I didn’t care what anyone else thought of me, I knew that harsh words in the newspaper would hurt all the same.

“What do you mean?” Ben’s tone told me he truly was puzzled by my comment.

I sighed. “I’m not used to any of this, Ben,” I said. “I know you wanted me to be there, but you were busy a lot of the time. I wasn’t allowed to be with you like the wives of the other actors. So I stood somewhere out of the way and tried not to look like an idiot. Nobody knew who I was, so nobody spoke to me. It was a new, and mostly unpleasant experience.”

“I—I’m sorry.” Ben rubbed a hand down his face, exhaling. He suddenly looked tired. “I didn’t realize you felt so uncomfortable. You don’t have to do it again. I understand.”

“That’s not what I meant.” I threw my arms around him. “I still want to go to the London premiere. I’ll wait for you inside though. I don’t need to stand around watching you sign autographs. I’ve loved being here in Venice with you. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” He smiled. “Besides,” I sighed, “I need to get used to it. You’re only going to be a bigger and bigger star. Maybe by the time I’ve been to ten or twenty premieres, I’ll get the hang of it.”

He laughed. “Everyone will know you by then,” he said. “You’ll have people to talk to. Plus, you’ll have met the people I’m working with as we go forward, like you’ve met everyone from _Sherlock._ ”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I said. “I guess it would be a lot better if I had someone there to chat with while you’re off charming your fans.” I yawned. “We’d better get some sleep.”

Ben looked down. “It’s a good thing this is a large bed,” he said thoughtfully.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because we’ve made quite a mess of things here.” He grinned. “But I don’t regret a second of it.”

“Me neither,” I said. “Now shove over.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benedict and Ophelia watch Third Star, talk about the difference between acting and real life, and explore anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains mild spoilers for Third Star, rough sex.

Benedict had come over with Chinese takeaway and the DVD of _Third Star_. I was still getting used to his hair so light, and so I had blinked at him as he stood in my kitchenette, the overhead light making his hair look like a crown of flame. He looked up, amused by the look on my face.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s still that hair,” I said. “I met you with dark hair, remember. I know that isn’t your natural colour either, but this is…a big change. I still don’t know how you manage to keep it so soft, with all that processing, and chlorine from swimming.” I closed the distance between us and ran my hand though his thankfully still-curly hair. I had seen pictures of it many different colours, very short, and straightened. I thought I preferred his natural colour, though I hadn’t seen it in person yet, only in photographs. I knew I loved the curl, though this saucy flip he had in the front was new, or at least exaggerated. I flicked it with one finger. He laughed.

“I owe it all to my stylist.” He said. “You could start seeing her yourself, you know. You have connections.” He smirked. “I could get you in, even though she has a waiting list six months long.”

“And then I could show you my gratitude, is that it?” I tried to suppress a smile and failed. He blinked at me in mock innocence.

“If you wished to show your gratitude in some physical way, I would have to oblige.” He slid his arms around my waist and drew me close, kissing my throat by my ear. “It would be rude not to.” He nipped at my earlobe, making me jump.

“Such a gentleman,” I agreed, and kissed his softly parted lips, our tongues gently exploring each other’s mouths. He tasted of cigarettes and the mint he’d had to try to cover them. We parted reluctantly and started unpacking the food. We carried everything into the living room and settled down on the floor, using my coffee table for the plates and takeaway containers. Once the tea had been poured and our plates filled, Benedict started Third Star. As soon as I saw Ben’s character, James, on screen, I winced.

“What?” Ben asked, proving that he was watching me, not the film.

“I know you told me, but you’re so skinny. You still look handsome, but you’re too thin. I liked you Sherlock-thin, but I like how you’re looking now, too. Healthy. That,” I gestured towards the screen with my chopsticks. “That is too thin. It’s not good for you.”

He hit the pause button, freezing the image of Benedict as James sitting alone in the garden, wearing a very nice hat.

“I might have to do that again someday, you know. I’ll do what it takes for a role—within, reason, yes.” He said this last a bit more forcefully, overriding my attempted interruption. “I’ll need your support if I do.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “It’s just hard to watch, okay? You can’t change how I feel about it.” I reached over and hit ‘play.’”

I watched, transfixed by the acting of all the principles, not just Ben, and admired the beautiful Welsh scenery. Ben paused the film a few more times to tell me anecdotes about filming. When the medication bag dropped from the backpack onto the ground, I paused it again.

“What’s the matter?” Ben asked, reaching for the remote.

“I think I know what happens next, and I don’t think I want to see it,” I said, pushing the remains of my meal around the plate so I wouldn’t have to look at him.

“It’s not me, it’s James,” Ben protested.

“But James looks like you,” I told him, tears starting to run down my face. “And I know what that’s like, that kind of pain, I’ve seen it, and I can’t bear it if it’s you.” I knew I was babbling, but I couldn’t make myself stop.

Ben stood up, reaching a hand down to me. “Come here,” he said. I took his hand, eyes on the floor, and he drew me into his embrace, my head on his chest. He took a deep breath. “I know you’re going to find this upsetting, but I’m right here. I’m fine. It’s acting. It’s not real. Sit with me, okay?” I nodded against his chest, and we sat together on the couch, with me on his lap as if I were a child, his arms around me. He hit ‘play.’

I cried quietly but steadily though the rest of the movie, my tears turning into full-scale sobs at the end, as I clung to his neck to prove to myself that he was there, whole, alive.

Benedict kissed my tears away, crooning soothing words and smoothing my hair out of my face. “It’s all right, I’m here, I’m fine.”

“Why do you have to be such a damned good actor?” I asked him, still sniffling. “You’re going to kill me.”

“If this is how you handle me playing a character who’s dying, how will you feel about love scenes? Will you wind up in jail for murdering me and the unlucky starlet?” He was trying to jolly me out of my mood, but I wasn’t sure this was the best conversation to be having right now.

I sighed. “That’s different,” I said, hoping he would leave it there.

“How is it different?” Of course, Benedict never left a difficult question unasked. It was just part of his nature.

“Let’s see if I can make any sense of it: when you portray a man in pain or dying, you’re showing me something that could happen to you, and what it might be like, and it’s awful to see. We all have had awful thoughts of our loved ones ill, but we try not to think about it. You paint me a picture and hang it on the bloody wall.”

He nodded. “Okay, I get that. How are love scenes different?”

“I know what you’re really like in bed. I know you love me. I trust you completely.” He blinked. “When your character is in love, or kisses someone, or has sex, I know it’s just the character, not you. I know what the reality looks like, and I’ll be able to see the differences. Of course,” I said, my voice suddenly lower, serious. “If I ever catch you being unfaithful, there will be no second chances.”

“I knew that already,” Benedict said, completely unfazed. “That’s part of who you are. I’m not worried, since I plan to be faithful to you until the day I die.”

Now it was my turn to blink. That was the second time Benedict had said something that sounded perilously close to a marriage proposal, but wasn’t. I didn’t know how to reply, so I didn’t. _Time for Ophelia’s foolproof plan for avoiding uncomfortable soul-searching, I thought. Change the subject._

“Speaking of knowing reality from acting,” I said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you angry. You get frustrated with me sometimes, but never angry.”

“It’s not like you’ve done anything to make me cross,” he said.

“I’ve never even seen you cross at someone else,” I insisted.

“Oh, I get angry,” Ben replied. “I just get it out of my system before I talk to you. Even if I go mad about something, I always feel better when I see you.”

I stood up and started clearing the dishes. Ben joined me, grabbing the teapot and cups.

“You were certainly angry with me about that interview,” he said as we entered the kitchen.

“You didn’t really see me angry,” I said, smiling over my shoulder as I quickly did the little bit of washing up.

His eyebrows rose. “No? You seemed pretty brassed off to me.”

I laughed. “Oh dear, you thought that was bad? I’d had all day to calm down. Remember that clipping I brought you?” He nodded. “That was actually from my _second_ copy of the newspaper. I tore the first one to shreds. I had to hoover up my office afterwards, and that gave me time to cool down.” Ben was staring at me, mouth open. “I’m afraid I said some rather not-nice things about you as well, but if anybody heard me, they kept it to themselves.” Ben swallowed audibly. “Not to worry,” I said, turning around and leaning against the counter. “I’m sure eventually you’ll piss me off again and get to see how I am. Inevitable, don’t you think? I’m sure I’ll do something to make you angry with me too.”

“I find it hard to imagine being angry with you,” Ben said, coming toward me.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Imagine it.”

“What?” Ben stopped, looking puzzled.

“You’re a terrific actor. Pretend. Do you need some motivation? Let’s say…I gave your school tie away to Oxfam. Or I told a reporter something nasty you said about a director, or you saw me flirting with another man, or—“

“Enough!” Ben’s face contorted in anger, his jaw clenched, the cords standing out in his neck. His eyes blazed with fury. His voice rose, filling the small kitchen. “Shut up about it! You’re always talking, talking, talking!” He waved one hand dismissively. He was totally convincing: he looked arrogant, livid, and hot as hell.

“Ooh, sexy,” I breathed, and caught his arm.

He tried to shake me off. “Let go of me,” he demanded.

“No,” I answered, grabbing his shirt at its highest closed button. I pulled hard, and at least one button gave way, popping off to land on the floor, rolling somewhere unseen.

“That’s it,” Ben hissed through clenched teeth as he grabbed both my arms. He pinned them behind my back, spanning both my wrists with one of his long-fingered hands. With the other, he yanked open the button of my jeans and jerked down the zip. He released my hands. “Take them off,” he commanded, his eyes intent.

I slid my jeans down my legs and stepped out of them, kicking them under the table. Benedict immediately grabbed me again and pushed my face to the table. My hips were jammed against the edge, forcing me up on my toes. My hands scrabbled for a hold, but the table was too wide. Ben held me in place by leaning against me, one hand on the small of my back while he removed his own trousers. Then he roughly jerked my knickers down below my knees. He leaned over me, his cock resting between my buttocks, his belly against my back, and whispered in my ear. “I’ll teach you what happens when you defy me.”

I gasped, and in the next moment, he entered me all at once, without even checking first whether I was wet enough for it to be comfortable. Evidently seeing Ben angry was enough of a turn-on for me, because it felt wonderful. Ben stood behind me, gripping my hips tightly, fucking me like a freight train. With each energetic thrust, my feet lost contact with the floor, and only Ben’s hold and my hips against the table edge kept me from being propelled across the table. The table itself rocked and creaked and moved a little farther across the floor with every impact. Benedict was in full voice, punctuating each thrust with a “There!” or a “Take it!” and once, “Bitch!” I wasn’t going to come in this position, with his hands holding me in place and mine trapped on the surface of the table, but damn, it was good. I hollered and bucked and cast about for a handhold, but I was careful not to say “stop.”

The table butted up against the wall, and now all of the force of Ben’s hips was slamming into me, sandwiched between him and the table. The litany of angry words had stopped, replaced by a feral growl that I knew meant he was close to orgasm. My now-sweaty palms got a little traction on the tabletop, and I pushed back into him, shouting, “God, yes, fuck me!” That was all Ben could take, and he came, shuddering, his hands convulsing where he still gripped my hips. He collapsed on top of me, pinning me to the table.

“Uh, Ben?” I tried to move, but his weight held me still. “You’re squashing me.”

“Oh! Sorry,” he murmured, pushing up on one arm so that I could breathe. He ran a hand over my arse as he pulled out of me, then stood up. Before I had time to move, he slid his hand down to my ankle, grabbed me, and roughly flipped me over, sliding me back so that my arse was on the table.

“What are you doing?” My voice was high-pitched in my surprise.

He still held my ankle. “I’m not done with you.” He grabbed each of my legs behind the knee and, forcing them open and back, dropped to his knees. He licked a wide stripe up between my legs, making me cry out. Then, continuing to pin me to the table, my feet in the air, he proceeded to lick, suck, and nibble my clit furiously, making me come faster than I ever had before. He didn’t even pause, continuing to torment me as I bucked and screamed on the table. With my knees pushed as far back as they were, I couldn’t sit up, and I couldn’t reach any part of him except his hands locked on the backs of my thighs. I pulled and scratched at his hands as I fought the sensory overload, but he ignored me.

I was hardly aware of what I was saying, a constant stream of, “Please, Ben!” and “I can’t, I can’t,” and incoherent sounds I hadn’t even known I could make. Ben was relentless, his tongue practically vibrating on my clit. Finally, I came again, the climax indescribable, the razor’s edge between pleasure and pain. My voice failed as I tensed, my mouth open in a soundless cry, my body flexing, my shoulders coming off the table. Finally, Benedict stopped, dropping my legs as he stood and entered me again, pulling me to him and pressing his body down on top of mine. I wrapped my legs and arms around him and held on for dear life, unable to process any more sensation. Benedict thrust hard into me only a handful of times before he reached his second climax of the evening as well, and we lay stunned together on the table.

Eventually, Benedict whispered in my ear. “So, darling, what did you learn from your little experiment?”

I smiled with the last of my remaining energy. “That I bloody well should start pissing you off.”

Benedict chuckled, and then set about helping me off the table and into bed. I knew that the bruises on my hips would shock him in the morning, but he’d get over it when I convinced him how much I’d enjoyed myself.


	21. Chapter 21

The weekend after we’d watched _Third Star_ , Benedict and I were relaxing over brunch, lounging about my flat in our robes and looking forward to a day with no plans whatsoever. As Ben poured me more coffee, he asked, “Does this building have larger flats than this?”

“Yes,” I answered. “There are two-bedroom flats, and a few with three bedrooms on the top floor. Why?”

“Well,” he said, passing the cream, “I’m going to be in Belgium for a couple of months, and I’ve been thinking about the security of my flat while I’m away. Whenever I’m in London, I’ll want to be with you anyway. I know we haven’t really talked much about moving in together, but if we took a larger flat in this building, I could give up mine, and when I come home, well, you would be here.” He was laying out a well-reasoned argument, obviously expecting me to protest. “I know you need to stay close to the hospital, so I was hoping that there would be a suitable flat here.” He searched my face, needing to know how I was receiving this.

“Um, alright,” I said. “I think I can switch flats in the building without waiting for the lease to end. I’ll call the management company tomorrow and see what’s available, ask about adding you to the lease.” I took a bite of toast for some time to think. This was certainly a nice way for him to show me that the separation wasn’t going to deter him from continuing our relationship. “I suppose some of our things will be redundant,” I said thoughtfully. “We don’t need two beds, or two dining tables.”

“Your things are nicer,” he said. “I’ll get rid of most of my furniture, if you don’t mind.” He looked relieved, and I realized he thought I’d take more convincing. We were only four months into things, and I suppose it was a bit quick, but we were in our thirties, and we seemed to agree on the direction our relationship was taking. Why wait just because other people might be scandalised?

“I am so much not looking forward to spending so much time apart,” I sighed, but then grinned. “At least, with all your things here, while you’re gone I can smell your clothes!”

His face grew serious, and he put down his coffee. “I will miss you every second I’m away,” he said. “Don’t think that I won’t.”

“I know,” I said, meeting his direct gaze. His beauty still took my breath away, even with morning stubble. “I’ll miss you too. We’ll get through. It’ll be fine.”

“It won’t be fine,” he countered. “But we’ll get through. And I’ll make it up to you.”

“I expect you’ll work on location many more times in your career,” I said. “Don’t you dare turn down a good project to spare my feelings. I won’t hear of it.” I bit down forcefully on the toast in emphasis.

“You’re better than I deserve, Ophelia.” He shook his head in wonderment at me.

“Well, with that attitude, you can hardly go wrong, can you?” I smirked. “Silly boy.”

“Guilty as charged, I’m afraid,” he sighed as he buttered his toast.

I stood, and Ben looked at me quizzically. I took the toast and the knife from his hands and placed them back on his plate. Then I tugged on the tie of his robe, and his puzzlement evaporated, replaced with that crooked little smirk I loved so much. He stood, taking me in his arms as his robe fell open, pulling mine from my shoulders as he kissed me.

He never did eat the toast.


	22. Chapter 22

When I arrived in the office, I was greeted by a note stuck on my office door: SEE ME – ROGER. I sighed. I knew that some photos of Benedict and me had surfaced over the weekend. We had gone to a charity ball on Thursday night. I figured that Roger had some issue with the media coverage. My name was now public knowledge, and a few reporters had gone so far as to print the name of my practice, but that had happened two weeks ago. There hadn’t seemed to be any consequences, as the typical cardiology patient profile didn’t overlap Benedict’s fan population very much.

I left my coat and bag in my office and trotted down the hall to see Roger. I only had fifteen minutes before my first appointment, and I wanted to look through a few charts before then. Roger was sitting at his desk, Saturday’s newspaper open to the Entertainment section. I couldn’t see what was on his computer screen, but he kept glancing at it.

“Phil, good of you to stop in so promptly,” he said.

“What do you need to talk to be about, Roger? My first appointment’s at eight.” I wasn’t fooled by his friendly tone. He was bothered about something, or he wouldn’t have left me that note.

“Have you seen this piece in _The Daily Mail?_ ” he asked, turning the paper around to face me. I had, as it happened. There was nothing new, really. There were two photos from the charity ball: one standard arrival photo of Benedict and me, and one of Ben, Margo Stilley, and another partygoer outdoors, all looking drunk and silly. The caption only named Ben. His right hand was raised as if to ward off the photographer, and a cigarette was pinched between his index and middle fingers. I knew exactly when this must have been, as Ben had broken in to the conversation I was having with Trinny Woodall about shoes to tell me he was going out for a cigarette.

“Yes, I have,” I said levelly. I wasn’t going to help him out by guessing what had him bothered.

“That’s a cigarette! How can you do this to the practice?” He punched the paper with a finger. “You’re promoting smoking!”

“For God’s sake, Roger, that’s a bit of a leap, isn’t it? I’m supposed to shun all smokers in my personal life, for the sake of the practice?” I folded my arms over my chest, but decided I didn’t want to look so defensive. I switched to hands on hips. “It seems I remember that your son-in-law smokes. Have you banned him from your house?”

Roger threw up his hands. “Don’t you have an eight o’clock appointment?” he growled.

I stomped back to my office, wondering what Roger was trying to accomplish. I figured that someone else must have pointed out Ben’s cigarette to him, since I didn’t think he bothered with the entertainment news. Maybe his wife put him up to it, since I knew that she saw every woman Roger worked with as a threat. It was ridiculous, of course: none of us had designs on Roger, and besides, I was dating Benedict. I supposed there was no logic in paranoia.


	23. Chapter 23

“Hello, darling. How goes filming?” Benedict had been in Belgium for three weeks. He would be finally be coming home at the weekend, though only for a few days, during which we would be attending several events and parties. Luckily I had been able to arrange those days off, mostly by working every single day since Ben had left. Moving my belongings from my old flat to our new flat and unpacking the boxes of Ben’s things occupied my evenings. We spoke just about every evening, except when my work or late filming intervened. Anyone listening in would surely have got an earful, as our calls usually degenerated into talking about what we’d be doing to each other if we weren’t 400 kilometres apart. I made a mental note that I needed to add batteries to my shopping list.

“It’s going rather well, though the schedule’s gotten a bit scrambled,” Ben told me, sounding tired. “I miss you terribly.”

“You’ll be home in a few days,” I reminded him. “ _Our_ home.” We had taken over this flat officially on 1 October, but I had arranged to continue the lease on my old flat for another month so that I could move gradually, without having to actually pack everything in boxes all at once. I didn’t want to have to take time off from work for moving, as I’d want it when Ben had breaks in filming. Ben’s belongings had been delivered, but he was also packed for his trip, and pretty much lived out of his suitcases for the week between vacating his flat and leaving for Belgium. We’d stayed in my old flat, as the furniture hadn’t been moved yet, so he hadn’t set foot in this one since we’d looked at it with the estate agent. He’d told me to go ahead and unpack for him; he’d find everything eventually. The majority of it was books and clothes, which didn’t surprise me in the slightest. I’d had a grand time paging through some photo albums from his Harrow days, and was amused to find that he still had some clothes with name labels in.

“Oh, that will be nice,” he said warmly. “Hotel living is wearing a bit thin already.”

“You’re tired of turn-down service and fresh towels?” I teased him.

“I’m tired of being without you,” he said. “When I wake up in a hotel like this, it could be anywhere in the world, until I turn on the telly and the news is in Flemish. But I want to wake up next to you. Every morning is a bitter disappointment.”

“Ah, Ben, you always know what to say.” The truth was, every morning I kept my eyes shut as long as possible before having to open them to the empty pillow beside me. Not that I couldn’t feel the lack of him in the flat as soon as I awoke. I longed to come in to music or a film playing, to be able to say, “I’m home!” and see him smile. Settling into the flat alone, surrounded by his things was a bit surreal: living together, but not.

“I’m afraid I said some things I shouldn’t this evening,” he said hesitantly.

“To a reporter?” I asked.

“No, nothing like that,” he answered, but he still didn’t sound happy.

“Go on,” I said, hearing that there was something he needed to tell me, but was feeling uncomfortable about.

“Well, there were some people there today from Mammoth Screen, you know, the production company. Some of them had brought their families along, I suppose on holiday, and the daughter of one of the producers suggested that she would like it very much if I took her out to dinner.” I stayed silent, knowing that he needed to get it all out. “She was rather forward. I told her, of course, that I was flattered by her interest. But I also said that I have a girlfriend. She tried to convince me that you needn’t know, what was the harm, and so on. I tried to remain polite, although that suggestion made me quite angry. Of course, I didn’t want to make a scene. I told her that I simply wouldn’t do that to you. Then she asked me how long it had been since I’d seen you, and said surely I must be terribly frustrated, making it completely obvious what she was offering. I must admit I got a bit shirty at that point, and told her that, even if I were tempted, which I wasn’t, I was too much of a gentleman to be unfaithful to my girlfriend, who is worth two of her. I told her I didn’t want to see her within ten metres of me again, and walked away.”

My mouth was hanging open by this point, and I was standing in the middle of the living room, the book in my hand forgotten. I set it down before I dropped it on my toes. “How often do you get propositioned like that?”

“Like that? Practically never. But more subtly? I’ve lost count. It was flattering at first, but now it’s rather an annoyance. I really have to watch how I talk to women, so they don’t get the wrong idea. If I’m too friendly and interested in what they have to say, they assume I’m interested in a quick shag. It’s mentally exhausting.” He really did sound exasperated, but I giggled. “What?” His tone was defensive.

“What a complaint! “Every woman I meet wants to shag me! It’s such a chore being me!”” Are you listening to yourself?” I couldn’t taunt him anymore since I was laughing too hard to talk.

He giggled as well. “I suppose you’re right. I would have given anything to be this attractive to women when I was twenty. But I don’t want to cut a swath through a crowd of fangirls. I only want you. I don’t really care what anyone else thinks, although I suppose it sells movie tickets and DVDs if people like the look of me. I just don’t understand this ridiculous adoration. They don’t actually know me.”

“Well, I agree they have good taste,” I told him. “They can adore you all they want, but you’re mine.”

“Exactly my point,” he said.

“I can’t wait for you to show me your point again,” I teased.

He groaned. “You’re killing me.”

“It’s been three weeks,” I reminded him. “I can’t decide what I want to do to you first. Ah, I know…” I trailed off, knowing he’d take the bait.

“What? What will you do to me?” His voice was rich, low, and expectant. I moved to the couch before answering.

“You’ll be laden down with bags. I’ll have to open the door for you. You’ll stagger in, tired and overburdened. Before you can even put down all your bags, I’ll push you back against the door, drop to my knees, unzip your trousers, and swallow your cock. You’ll be hard in no time.”

“My god, thinking of that I’ll be hard in the taxi.” He sounded a bit breathless, and I knew he was turned on.

“I’ll take you in, your cock banging the back of my throat, sucking with hard, long strokes. I’ll feel your hands in my hair, hear your breathing become heavy, ragged, until your come floods my mouth and you call out my name.”

“Ophelia,” he groaned on the other end of the line, and I knew he was close to coming for real, 400 kilometres away, his hand standing in for my mouth as he imagined the homecoming I described. I continued to murmur filthy sweet nothings into his ear until I heard him gasp. When his breathing slowed down again, his voice was almost a whisper. “I’ll lift you up, sweep you off your feet, and carry you to the couch. Then I’ll strip off all your clothes and touch you everywhere, relearning the feel of your skin. When your lovely pink nipples get hard, I’ll kiss them, tease them into perfect points. You’ll be moaning and wriggling and begging for more.”

“Yes, more,” I breathed, my hands on my breasts, trying to pretend they were Benedict’s.

“I’ll slide down your body, part your thighs, and taste your delicious clit.” I touched myself and gasped. He chuckled evilly. “I’ll lick and nibble and suck until you’re absolutely begging to come. Then I’ll slide my fingers inside you and feel how dripping wet you are for me. When you come, I’ll feel you squeezing my fingers while you buck and scream and pull on my hair.” With the sex in his voice, the thought of him doing what he described, and my hands following his direction, I found myself climaxing as if on cue. Ben waited until he was sure I could listen again. “When you’re done, I’ll take you in my arms and kiss you for hours. I don’t want to be away from you for this long ever again.”

My eyes flew open. He kept doing that: saying things that sounded like he considered our relationship permanent. Yet he hadn’t ever said it directly. We weren’t engaged, and we didn’t have an “understanding.” We had a lease, sure, but so did a lot of people who weren’t life partners. “Ever?” I managed to whisper. I had to stop avoiding this conversation. It seemed easier somehow on the telephone.

“Ever,” he answered, his voice soft but clear. “It’s late. I know you have work tomorrow. Dream of me?”

“Always. Dream of me?”

“Always. I love you, goodnight.” He rang off.

I supposed that now we had an understanding.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia goes Christmas shopping with Georgia Moffett.

Benedict was back in Belgium, this time for two weeks without a break. The weather had turned chill, and I was starting to feel a bit down. Fairy lights and ribbons were everywhere, since it was about six weeks before Christmas. I was delighted to have a day of shopping planned with Georgia. I figured I’d get most of my Christmas shopping done, and we’d have some uninterrupted time for girl talk.

Georgia dragged me though a children’s boutique, asking my opinion on frilly dresses and tiny shoes, followed by a shop specializing in toys that carried claims that they spurred early learning. “Someday soon you’ll be shopping here,” she teased.

“It couldn’t possibly be that soon,” I protested.

“You’re not saying never, though, are you now?” she pounced.

I sighed. “We’ve talked about it,” I admitted. “But he’s still going to be away most of the next couple of months. That makes it a little difficult to make a baby.”

“It only takes one night!” she crowed, doing a little dance in the middle of the store. Several people started staring. “I’ll bet you’re pregnant by Easter!” I tried to hide behind a display of wooden puzzles. “Little baby Cumberbatches! They’ll be so cute!”

“Georgia!” I waved my arms at her. “It’s only talk right now. Keep it down!”

She seemed to realise where she was, glancing around as if checking for photographers lurking in the toy displays. She hugged me, whispering in my ear, “Baby-making sex is really hot. You’re going to have so much fun!” I blushed. “And you two will make the best parents,” she added, taking my hands and looking me in the eye. “You really will.”

“Do you really think so?” I asked despite myself. “We both work so much, and neither of us has ever really taken care of a baby, and—”

“And you worry about that sort of thing, so you’ll be fine,” Georgia insisted. “You’re both smart, loving people. You love each other and you’ll love your child. You’ll figure it out. Do you think I knew what I was doing when I had Tyler? You can always call on me, you know. But you won’t need to.” She smiled encouragingly.

After lunch, Georgia suggested that we haunt a few jewellery shops. She was looking for something for her mother for Christmas. “You don’t wear much jewellery, do you?” she asked me. I agreed that I didn’t. I couldn’t wear rings or bracelets to work, and I wore the same few pairs of earrings most of the time, with one really nice set for going out. I didn’t spare much thought for it. “A few well-chosen pieces would really flatter you,” she insisted. She drew me over to one of the counters. “What do you like? Start there.”

I gazed at the dazzling array of earrings, necklaces, and rings, pretty much overwhelmed.

“Well,” I said, “I don’t really like gold, actually.”

She looked up at me sharply, and then tilted her head to one side. “I expect that white gold or platinum suits your colouring better.” She glanced at the jeweller behind the counter, who was listening avidly to our conversation. He nodded and indicated the next display. This one was full of pieces set in platinum. I drifted over to it, entranced. I had never seen such beautiful jewellery. This display was obviously the work of an artisan jeweller, each item one of a kind.

“This is dangerous,” I told her. “Everything here is beautiful. But when would I wear any of it?”

Georgia laughed. “You go to movie premieres and charity balls now, sweetie! Or did you forget?”

I groaned. “I try to. I’m still just me, Georgia. Those parties aren’t really my scene.” I knew that many women would have been thrilled to be in my position, attending award ceremonies and parties on the arm of one of the most eligible bachelors in England, hobnobbing with celebrities, and appearing in the papers. I generally wanted to hide, throw up, or run home and change into jeans. It was getting better, as I started to meet more people, but I wasn’t at my best in crowds of strangers, especially when Ben was whisked away for photographs and interviews and I was left on my own.

“Then find something here that does feel like you. Or rather, something here that feels like you want to feel. When you know you look beautiful, you’ll feel more comfortable.” That made an odd sort of sense. I loved the quirky, beautiful pieces in the case in front of me, but I thought maybe I’d have to work up to them. Right now, I thought they’d call more attention to me than I’d like. I wanted something classic, but not boring. I wandered through the shop, the jeweller on my heels. If I so much as glanced at an item, he brought it out and instead I try it on. Georgia watched closely, evidently interested in what I liked. Finally, I came to a case of antique and estate jewellery.

“Isn’t that the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen?” I breathed, then immediately felt embarrassed. Georgia and the jeweller crowded in to see what I found so entrancing. The jeweller brought the ring out of the case.

“This ring is an antique, Victorian, a cushion-cut sapphire, set in platinum, with a pair brilliant diamonds. Sapphires have been a popular alternative to diamonds for engagement rings since Prince Charles gave one to Lady Diana, though this ring was not created as one. Would you like to try it on?” He reached for my left hand. I glanced at Georgia, who made encouraging motions at me. I allowed the jeweller to slide the ring onto my finger and stared at it. I noticed I was overdue for a manicure. I was hard on my nails, having to wash my hands dozens of times per day at work. The ring was lovely, much more lovely than my hand.

“I don’t think I’m worthy of this ring, Georgia,” I said jokingly. “If I wore it, I’d have to upgrade everything else in my wardrobe.”

“Then maybe your wardrobe needs an upgrade,” she answered reasonably.

I rolled my eyes. “I’m supposed to be Christmas shopping, and you’re trying to get me to buy things for myself. You’re a terrible influence!” She grinned as I slid the ring off my finger and reluctantly gave it back to the jeweller. I was afraid to ask the cost of the lovely thing, and decided that ignorance was best. I was sure it was more than I would ever be willing to spend on something so frivolous for myself. The only weakness I indulged was shoes, and I reasoned that well-made shoes that looked good were expensive, but paid off in both comfort and style. I wasn’t going to buy myself jewellery at Christmas.

As we left the shop, Georgia suddenly remembered something she wanted to ask the proprietor. I checked my messages while she ran back in. There was a text from Ben, saying he hoped I was having a good time shopping with Georgia. I tried to remember whether I’d told him we were going out today, but forgot about it when Georgia came back out of the shop, all smiles, and we crossed the road to enter our third children’s boutique of the day. It was only later that I realized that she hadn’t bought anything for her mother.


	25. Chapter 25

Benedict had been hoping I could rearrange my schedule in order to attend the Evening Standard Awards with him, but I just couldn’t manage it. Two people were on vacation and one was out with kidney stones, so there was no way to make it work. Due to a press leak, Benedict pretty much knew that he and Jonny were to share the award for best actor. I was very sorry not to be able to attend, but I knew he’d have a good time anyway. He missed Jonny now that they weren’t working together anymore, and it would be good for him to be able to catch up without worrying about entertaining me.

Ben needed to drive back to Belgium that night, though we hoped to see each other when he stopped home to change clothes. That didn’t work out though, as I was stuck at the hospital until well after midnight. When I stumbled in at half three, I found his suit ready to send out for cleaning and a love note on my pillow.

 _Dearest Ophelia,_

 _How I wish I could stay, if only to sleep holding you in my arms. This separation is wearing very thin. I’m looking forward to the end of filming in Belgium, so that we can start living together for real. Know that I am thinking of you, always._

 _I love you._

 _Ben_

Two nights later, when Ben called as he did every night. I had to tell him that I was unfortunately also unable to attend the Prince’s Trust Rock Gala. “Are you sure you want to drive all the way back to London twice in one week?” I asked. He was doing an awful lot of driving, and I worried about his lack of sleep. He assured me that he was fine, except for missing me. In an odd attempt to cheer me up, he launched into a recitation of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130, _My Mistress’ Eyes are Nothing Like the Sun_ – while at the same time doing his famous impersonation of Alan Rickman. When I was able to stop laughing and catch my breath, I made him promise to drive carefully.

“It would be really stupid for something to happen to you driving back and forth across Europe to go to a party,” I told him.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to miss it, and I’ve only got a couple more days’ filming to wrap up here,” he reminded me. “Then I’ll be back in London for good.”

“Until you leave for New Zealand, you mean.” It was difficult to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

“It’s only going to take a couple of weeks,” he cajoled. “And we’ll have Christmas together beforehand. Our first Christmas! And really, you ought to be able to take a holiday and come down for a week. You’re working Christmas. Surely you can take off a week in January.” If I hadn’t been sure he would never stoop to it, I’d swear he was whining, just a little.

“I’m doing my best to arrange it,” I assured him. “I really want to go. Besides wanting to see you, I’ve always wanted to visit New Zealand. And I definitely need a holiday. But you know I’m not Roger’s favourite these days. He disapproves of you, or of my dating you, anyway, heaven knows why.”

“If he’s going to interfere with your life, maybe you should move to another practice, or open your own,” Ben suggested.

“God, what a headache that would be!” I exclaimed.

“Think about it,” he countered. I murmured something noncommittal, just to end the discussion.

Yet again, I missed seeing Benedict entirely due to one patient after another being wheeled into A and E with chest pain. I knew he had planned to drive back to Belgium directly from the Gala, so I wasn’t surprised to find no trace of him in the flat when I returned at an obscene hour. I barely managed to brush my teeth before collapsing face down on the bed, waking what seemed like seconds later to the odious sound of my alarm clock.

Three cups of coffee and a shower later, I was seeing patients in the office. At noontime, my phone rang with an unfamiliar London number. I took a chance and answered it.

“Dr Parkes?” The voice was somehow familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “This is Mark Gatiss. We met at the same time that you met Benedict, you may recall.”

“Yes, Mr Gatiss, hello. What can I do for you?” I wondered how he had got the number for my personal mobile.

“Call me Mark, please. I was wondering whether you had attended the Prince’s Trust Rock Gala with Benedict last night.”

“No, I was working. Why do you ask?” Now I was really puzzled. If something had happened to Benedict, surely someone would have notified me.

“Ah, I thought as much. Have you seen any of the arrival photos?” Mark sounded amused now, and I wondered what he was driving at.

“No, I don’t even know where I would look. Why?” I hoped I didn’t sound annoyed, but I wished he’d get to the point.

“Let’s just say that his choice of attire seemed a little…unfortunate, shall we say. I expressed doubt that you had seen his…ensemble, and my husband Ian turned it into a bet. Naturally I had to prove myself right. Asking you seemed a better course than asking Benedict. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, after all. He’s taken more of an interest in fashion lately, and I don’t want to squash his newfound élan. But perhaps he needs a little more…supervision.”

I typed in the website address Mark gave me. Seeing the photos, I didn’t know whether to groan or giggle. Benedict was a study in grey, topped with a black fedora. He was wearing an asymmetrical crossover top that he favoured, and I knew he had worn it when recording some interviews recently for _Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy._ Unfortunately it was sort of an outer layer, and the shirt worn underneath would peek out. He usually failed to coordinate that with the rest of the outfit. This time was no exception: a mocha-coloured button-down was just visible. I noted that he needed a shave as well.

“I don’t know what to say, Mark. It’s perfectly dreadful. Perhaps he was tired of fending off the ladies in my absence, and thought that a hideous outfit would keep them at bay?”

Mark laughed wholeheartedly, thanked me for helping him win his bet (Ian would have to do the washing up for a week), and rang off.

I sat at my desk, my sandwich forgotten, gazing at a photo of my lover, a man who still looked fantastic despite also looking like he was playing dress-up from the ragbag. I suspected that he was running short of clean clothes since his cases were most likely packed in anticipation of coming home for good in another two days. Coming home – to me.

I couldn’t keep the grin off my face the rest of the afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The outfit described can be seen here:
> 
> http://www.benedictcumberbatch.co.uk/benedict-cumberbatch-at-the-5/
> 
> For a treat, check this out on YouTube:
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=06qrlwQNdpo&feature=related


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's New Year's Eve...ring in the new.

Ben and I had spent the time since he’d been home from Belgium unpacking the rest of our boxes, with the last one finally sorted on 28 December. We’d needed to buy a few more bookshelves, but otherwise everything found a place without too much trouble. We set up the second bedroom as an office with both our computers. We were both working during the day, with _Parade’s End_ filming around London, but we had most of our evenings and nights free to be together. I got my wish, to come home to find Ben lounging on the couch with a book, waiting for me. We christened every room in the flat as ours by making love just about everywhere feasible, including the kitchen table, the living room floor, the shower, and up against the front door.

We had been discussing when to have children. Ben was still concerned about being gone for long periods for various filming projects, but I countered that there would never be a perfect time, and we weren’t getting any younger. Though Ben wasn’t certain how long he would need to stay in New Zealand, he had agreed that I should stop taking my birth control now. Neither of us had broached the subject of marriage, but I figured that we’d had enough change over a short period of time. I had no doubts as to his devotion or to his intention to stay with me.

Frankly, while I didn’t voice my concerns, I was terrified at the thought of what pregnancy would do to my body, and how Benedict would react to that. I saw that parenthood hadn’t seemed to damage David and Georgia’s chemistry, but no one ever really knows what goes on behind others’ closed doors. In the end, though, I believed in Benedict’s love for me, and I was oddly eager to see what a child of ours would be like.

I had worked Christmas Day while Ben had spent the day with his parents. The trade-off was not working New Year’s Eve or Day. We were going to David and Georgia’s combination wedding reception and New Year’s Eve party. Georgia had been a gorgeous bride the night before. The party was at The Globe, and I expected it to be rather large. I was surprised when we got there that people were spread out over many smaller rooms and the balcony, each area seeming like a more intimate party. We wound up settling into a lovely lounge, the walls lined with bookshelves, the furniture overstuffed leather. The room held some of Ben’s friends and a few of mine, who had gotten to know Georgia well enough over the past few months to be invited.

The subject turned to misquotes in magazine interviews. Ben’s friend James, ever the troublemaker, said, “Hey Ophelia, did you know that Benedict once told a reporter that he’s, and I quote, “a fucking fantastic lover”?”

Ben groaned, shaking his head and covering his eyes. “James, how much have you had to drink already? It’s only ten.”

“Well, you did!” James insisted, an impudent grin on his face. “So,” he turned back to me. “Is he?”

I froze, wineglass in hand, mouth open. I felt the blood rising into my cheeks. Everyone was looking at me except Ben, who was staring at the floor and looking like he wished he could disappear.

I took a deep breath, put down my wine, and smiled at James. “There are two words I believe describe Benedict best: ‘honest’ and ‘humble.’ Excuse me.” I stood and left the room quickly, taking my flaming face with me.

Benedict stumbled out after me, red-faced. “I cannot believe he asked you that. I’ve regretted saying that since the moment it came out of my mouth. And I cannot believe how you answered!” He was laughing, and he threw his arms around me. “You are amazing,” he announced, kissing me soundly on the lips. He tasted of single-malt Scotch. “Brilliant. Courage under fire.”

I kissed him back, enjoying being close to him for a moment, though I knew that the longer we were away, the rowdier the reception we’d get when we returned to the room. “We’ll have to arrange some sort of payment for my excellent reference,” I teased him.

“But you were only telling the truth, right?” he returned. I pinched him. “Ow! I’m sure we can work something out,” he allowed. His voice dropped as he brought his lips to my ear. “Something involving handcuffs, perhaps?”

My knees threatened to give way from the heat and the promise. “How much longer are we going to stay?” I asked, my hands sliding down his back to cup his arse through his trousers.

He laughed. “Until well after midnight, I should think. It is New Year’s Eve.”

I sighed, stepping back from him and straightening my dress. “Well, then,” I grinned. “We’d better go back in.”

He gave me a smart salute, clicking his heels together. “Ja wohl, Doktor!” I shook my head at him, laughing as he turned on his heel and opened the door.

Around eleven, Georgia and David joined us, obviously making the rounds of the various groups. Commanding everyone’s attention, Georgia brought up the subject of New Year’s resolutions. “Come on,” said Matt, flinging his hair out of his eyes for the millionth time that night. “What’s the point? Nobody keeps them.”

James jumped in, “I do. Last year I resolved to practice absolutely every day, no matter what. Jet lag, illness, just don’t give a fuck, whatever.”

“And you kept it?” Matt asked dubiously.

“Yep. Some days it had to be on a keyboard, since I don’t usually have access to a piano in hotels, but I did it. And my playing is all the better for it. You just have to resolve something you really _want_ to do, not something you think you _should_ do.”

Matt looked thoughtful. “I guess that makes sense. But if you want to do something, why do you need to make a resolution?”

David jumped in. “Because even though you want the outcome, sometimes it’s hard to stick to the work it takes to get there, every single day.”

“That’s it,” James pointed at him excitedly. “It’s a promise to yourself that you’ll do what it takes to get what you want.”

As Matt nodded thoughtfully into his drink, Georgia asked, “So, who’s got a resolution to share?” No one spoke up. She sighed. “Okay, I’ll go first: I resolve to fit back in my pre-baby clothes by April!” David rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. “What about you, Ophelia?”

I gulped, looking at Ben. He nodded, giving me permission to share. “Well, um…after tonight I won’t be drinking alcohol anymore, for at least a year, maybe more.” Georgia squealed and clapped her hands together; everyone else but Ben looked mystified.

“Why the fuck not?” asked James.

I opened my mouth to speak, but Georgia beat me to it. “They’re going to get pregnant!” she whooped. Ben and I both turned red and grinned at each other. Everyone else started talking at once, some to razz us, others to congratulate us and say what great parents we’d make. Someone made a toast, and all glasses were drained to the future Cumberbaby. There followed a general muddle as everyone got another drink and settled back down.

Georgia insisted on hearing everyone’s resolutions. David resolved to spend lots of quality time with Olive and Tyler. James resolved to keep up his daily piano practice, since he was happy with the results so far. Other resolutions included more exercise, less chocolate, and a change of agent. Finally, the question came around to Ben.

“So, Ben, life’s going well for you. Do you have any resolutions to make it even better?” David asked, his accent very pronounced after a number of glasses of Scotch.

I started giggling, thinking how Scotch made him sound more Scottish. I wondered exactly how many glasses of wine I’d had, and realized I’d lost track. Ben gave me that look of his, with one eyebrow improbably raised, and I cracked up completely. I was laughing too hard to explain myself, and all I could choke out was, “Scotch!” and wave a hand at David before I fell back in my chair, tears running down my face as I laughed silently, barely able to breathe. Ben started to giggle too, and then everyone was laughing, though I doubted anyone knew why. Eventually, we all settled down, and someone handed me a tissue to wipe my eyes. I could see that my makeup had run, but I was among friends, and I didn’t care.

“You haven’t got out of answering, Ben!” my friend Claire called out. “What’s your resolution?”

“Well, I _am_ an integral part of Ophelia’s resolution,” he said, rising from his seat. He wandered over to the room’s bar and poured himself a little more Laphroaig. Catcalls told him that he wasn’t getting away with that answer. “But I do have another resolution,” he held up a hand for patience and took a rather large sip of his whiskey. Setting the glass down, he returned to stand in front of me. Then, to my utter astonishment, he knelt on the floor, taking my hand. “I resolve to marry the future mother of my children. That is, if she’ll have me.” He reached into his front trouser pocket and fished out a ring. I gasped as I realized it was the antique sapphire and diamond ring that I had admired while shopping with Georgia in November. I stared as he slid it onto my left ring finger. “Ophelia, I love you with all my heart. We don’t know yet whether we’ll have children, but you’re the only woman with whom I want to have them. Will you marry me?” The room was silent, and I realized that everyone was waiting for me to answer him.

I raised my eyes from the ring sparkling on my finger to meet his eyes. I saw anticipation, love, and not a speck of doubt. “As if you even had to ask,” I said, and kissed him, our lips meeting gently, the sweetest kiss we had yet shared. The room erupted around us, cheers and clapping and congratulations. The men started slapping Ben on the back before he even rose from his knees.

Georgia was vibrating. “It was so hard to keep it all secret! David didn’t even know.” She hugged me. “This is so exciting!” I was still dazed. How long had he been planning this? From before my shopping trip with Georgia, obviously. The man was devious, and he could keep a secret, which would have been unsettling if I didn’t trust him with my life.

“Just for that, you get to be a bridesmaid,” I told her pointedly. She laughed some more and hugged me again.

I looked at the ring on my hand, and then back at Ben, who was being pounded on the back some more and plied with alcohol by the male guests. _Holy shit,_ I thought. _We’re getting married._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you missed it, "James" is pianist James Rhodes and "Matt" is Matt Smith.


	27. Chapter 27

“Have you given any thought as to where you’d like us to get married?” Ben’s question came out of the blue, dragging me out of my book. We were sharing the couch, our legs a tangle beneath the blanket. Ben’s book lay open on his chest, and he regarded me with one arm tucked behind his head. I wondered how long he had been watching me before he spoke.

“Not really,” I admitted. I had been too wrapped up in work and helping Ben prepare for his rapidly approaching trip to New Zealand to do any real planning. The idea that Ben and I were to be married still seemed somewhat surreal to me. “I assumed London, but I hadn’t got father than that, really.”

He laughed. “I thought women loved planning weddings. I figured I’d be finding wedding magazines on every surface and you’d be asking me whether I preferred roses or lilacs.”

I grinned. “I’m not too fussed about it. I want it to be nice, but not over-the-top. I don’t need to set a trend or make a statement. I just want to marry you and have a nice party for the people who love us. So if you have a preference for roses over lilacs, you’d better let me know, because I don’t care, so long as it’s pretty.”

Benedict stared at me. “I think the Bride’s Union is going to revoke your card for that.”

“Let them,” I said. “I only want to be a bride for one day, anyway. I’m much more interested in being your wife.”

He smiled. “You know,” he said, trying for nonchalant and failing, “we could get married at The National Theatre.”

It was my turn to stare. That was perfect – and obviously Ben had been putting more thought into finding a venue than I had. “That’s terrific,” I answered. “I’ll ring them up and find out what dates they have open in April.” It was a good thing that I wasn’t too particular about my wedding day. Benedict and I didn’t see any reason for a long engagement, especially since we planned to start a family as soon as possible.

Ben sat up, placing his book on the coffee table and reversing his position on the couch. He took away my book and kissed me as he snuggled in between my body and the back of the couch. “So, if you got pregnant today, would it ruin your wedding dress?”

“Probably not, but I doubt my birth control has worn off yet.”

“We could consider it a dress rehearsal.”

“Don’t you mean an un-dress rehearsal?” He giggled at my stupid joke and sat up again.

“Definitely,” he said, grinning as he stripped off his cardigan and the t-shirt beneath. As always, the sight of all that luscious skin made my fingers itch to touch him. I sat up, running my hands up his torso. He grabbed the hem of my jumper and tugged. When he spoke again, it was at least an octave lower than before, that sexy rumble he knew made me wet with anticipation. “I want you naked, now.” The heat in his eyes made me shiver.

“Yes, Mr Director,” I agreed, and helped him strip off my clothes and the rest of his. As soon as we were undressed, Ben pressed me back against the pillows at the end of the couch, his body pressing into me, his erection hot against my thigh.

“Mr Director, hm?” he breathed in my ear as his hand claimed one of my breasts. “I like the sound of that.”

I gasped as he tweaked a nipple. His lips roved over my neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He knew what drove me crazy, and he was pushing all my buttons at once. I ached with need for him. “Just tell me what to do,” I panted. “Tell me how you want me to act.”

He chuckled, and the vibration of his voice against my skin increased the growing heat between my legs. He brought his head up and kissed me, his tongue invading as his hips pressed his cock harder into my thigh. When he broke the kiss, he was breathing hard, and he rested his forehead on mine. “Just…no. I don’t want to play games tonight. I just want to be inside you,” his voice dropped to a whisper. “As much as possible.”

“God, yes,” I answered. “What are you waiting for?”

“Are you—“ he started.

“Yes!” I exclaimed as I shifted my hips so that I was more directly under him. I spread my thighs in invitation, and he drove his cock into me, making both of us gasp in pleasure. I wrapped my legs around his waist as he pounded into me, our mouths locked together, swallowing each other’s grunts and sighs. I scratched desperately at his back as he braced one foot on the floor and thrust still harder, still faster. I threw my head back and begged for more. Ben growled, his forehead tucked into my shoulder. I could feel my orgasm building, and prayed that he could hold on long enough for me to get there. I could tell he was close as his breathing came even faster.

“Ophelia?” He managed to blurt out my name as a question.

“Please!” It came out as a sob, but he understood, as I knew he would. He kept up his punishing pace for another few precious moments until I came. Then he let go, coming apart with me, crying out wordlessly as pleasure crashed over him.

We lay tangled together on the couch until the perspiration cooling on our skins made us shiver. Then Ben finally slipped reluctantly out of me, kissing me gently. He stood up and offered me his hand. “Come, my love. Let’s go to bed.”

I took his hand, and, leaving our clothes strewn about the living room, followed my fiancée to our bed. He was leaving the country in just a few days, and I wanted to save up the memory of his skin to tide me over the weeks we would be apart.


	28. Epilogue 1 - October 2012

I knew that being pregnant with twins meant that it was unlikely I’d make it to their due date, but I was determined to work for as long as possible. Roger was irked that I wouldn’t give him an exact date for the start of my maternity leave, but I couldn’t stand the idea of sitting around the flat, waiting. The nursery was ready with two of everything, piles of tiny clothes were washed and folded, and my mother and sisters were on full alert, ready to drop everything at a moment’s notice. That I’d made it into October was thrilling, and every day that went by made it less likely that the babies would have serious problems at birth.

I earned plenty of stares every morning as I walked the two blocks to the hospital. I had to admit I looked like I’d swallowed two basketballs. Luckily Benedict still seemed to think I was beautiful. He treated me like a goddess, making sure I had anything I needed, running all the errands, and touching me constantly. He couldn’t keep his hands or his lips off my belly, as if he were trying to hold and kiss the twins already. He read them stories, giving voices to all the characters and making me laugh. However, he was easily able to stop pretending they could understand him, and often these bedtime stories had turned into adult movies. I was thrilled that our sex life hadn’t suffered so far.

The past ten months had been a whirlwind: it would seem that the twins had been conceived in New Zealand, since I had only spent a week there in the middle of Ben’s world travels. I’d held onto the news until he’d returned, needing to see his face when I told him. He had cried with joy, sweeping me off my feet in a huge hug. He had practically vibrated with impatience waiting for the day that I said he could stop keeping it a secret. I sat by and laughed at him while he rang everyone we knew to share the news.

Ben had continued to work practically non-stop, planning on taking a hiatus when the babies came. More than one of these projects was abroad, but he had flown back and forth frequently, since he didn’t want to miss out on the pregnancy. We’d been married in a small private ceremony in April, held at The National Theatre. It had been six months since that day, and Benedict still glowed when he said the words, “my wife.”

As the babies grew, my life required some adjustments. I’d had to cut back to half time at work after a preterm labour scare at 5 months along. Despite my telling him that he should continue to take any job he liked, Ben insisted on staying in London after that. Honestly, I was grateful, since I wasn’t used to having so much free time on my hands. I was never bored with Ben around, and his company became more and more important as my mobility decreased. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been able to put on hose or tie my own shoes. I could wear only billowing dresses or humongous drawstring slacks. Even most maternity clothing was inadequate to cover my ballooning belly. I joked that I needed a “Warning! Vehicle reversing!” alert. Georgia had shown me a photo in _The Daily Mail_ that had been snapped of me on the street with the caption, “Cumberbatched!” I thought it was unflattering but amusing. Ben thought it was in bad taste. Either way, by the beginning of October I was ready for this to be over, even though I knew that the longer the pregnancy went toward term the better it was for the babies.

On 19 October, I walked to work as usual. Ben had left very early for a location shoot. As I crossed the lobby I suddenly felt a gush of fluid soaking my legs under my flowing maternity skirt. I stopped dead. “Um, security?”

The security guard started a whirlwind of activity: housekeeping arrived to mop up the floor as an orderly guided me into a wheelchair. As we headed up to the maternity ward, I rang the office, then Ben. I assumed I would get no answer, since he would leave his mobile in his trailer on location. To my surprise, it was answered by a strange, yet somehow familiar male voice with an American accent. “Hang on, Ophelia. Ben!” the man shouted.

“Thanks, Steven,” I heard Ben say before he came on the line. I realized with a shock that Benedict had asked Steven Spielberg to hold his mobile in case I went into labour. “Ophelia? Is it time?”

“Well, my water just broke in the middle of the hospital lobby, and I’m on my way up to maternity, so I guess it is.” For the first time, it really hit me that I was about to give birth, and about to be a mother, times two. “Ben?” My voice shook, though I tried to keep it steady. “Can you come? I’m sorry, but I’m scared.”

“Don’t be sorry, don’t ever be sorry. I’ll be right there.” I could tell he was telling Steven as well as me that he was leaving. “I have to hang up to drive, okay?”

“Of course! For God’s sake don’t crash. I’m fine. We’re all fine. I need you. Just come.” I was crying now, and I didn’t know why.

“Hold on, Ophelia. I’m coming. I love you, and the twins. I’ll be right there. Okay?” I heard the revving of his bike’s engine.

“Okay. Drive safe.”

“I will.”

By now I had been wheeled into a hospital room, and the nurse had been waiting for me to hang up. She helped me out of the wheelchair and sent me into the loo to change into a gown. While I was in there, someone delivered the emergency bag I’d been keeping in my office. I felt a little better knowing I had some of my own things with me. The nurse helped me into bed and asked me questions about what had happened, when I had eaten last, and what I wanted for pain relief during labour. She explained that my doctor was seeing other labour patients and would get to me within the hour, as long as there was no emergency. She had ordered an ultrasound to find out whether both babies were head down, as I was hoping for a natural birth. If either one was out of position, I would need a Caesarean section. Just as she was explaining this, the first real contraction hit me and took my breath away. The nurse hurried out to let the doctor know of this new development and make sure the ultrasound technician was on the way.

Twenty minutes and four contractions later, I was learning that my hoped-for delivery was not to be: our little girl was sideways. I was just absorbing this when I heard Benedict’s voice in the hallway. “This room?”

I was so relieved by his arrival that I called out to him. “Ben! In here!” He burst into the room and took my hand. “I’m probably going to need a C-section, Ben,” I told him. “Little Lily won’t cooperate.”

He sighed. “It will be okay,” he reassured me, patting my hand. “Just so long as you’re all healthy, it doesn’t matter.”

“I know,” I said. “But I’m still scared.” I tightened my grip on his hand as another contraction came and tried to breathe through it like I’d been taught in childbirth class. I didn’t want Ben to worry, but I could see he was close to panic seeing how much pain I was in. “Relax.” I tried to laugh as the contraction ended. “It’s supposed to hurt.”

Worry creased his brow as he brushed a stray hair off of my forehead. “Can I get you anything?”

“No,” I said. “Just you.”

He smiled, and bent down to brush my lips with his.

My obstetrician, Dr Wright, arrived just then and started ordering everyone about. She looked at the ultrasound images and turned to me. “I don’t think it’s a very good idea to let you try to deliver. Your little boy will come out nicely, but then your girl could get into trouble if she doesn’t drop head down as her brother comes out. Then we’d have to do an emergency Caesarean, and that’s not good for anyone.” She looked at us both. “Do you agree?”

Ben and I looked at each other. “I don’t know anything about this,” he said. “I just want all three of you to be safe.”

I nodded. “Yes, go ahead,” I told the doctor. She launched into a detailed description of the procedure and its risks, but I barely heard anything as I rode out the next contraction. I signalled that Ben should sign the papers. 

I was dimly aware of the swirling preparations around me: “Anaesthesia – spinal – urgent – transverse – O.R. – call paeds – hurry.” Someone shoved a cap on my head, and Ben was handed a stack of green cloth to change into. He emerged from the loo looking like he was ready to play an extra on _Casualty._ I giggled, and then gasped as the pain came back. 

Ben tried to return to my side, but was stopped by the nurse. “We’re taking her to the O.R. now. We’ll come and get you once her spinal is in.”

“I want to stay with my wife,” Ben insisted.

The nurse frowned. “This is how we do it, Mr Cumberbatch. You’ll be allowed in the O.R. when the doctor is ready to start.”

“Please,” Ben implored. “Can you ask?”

The nurse threw up her hands. “All right, I’ll ask, but if the doctor says no, you have to abide by it, okay?” Ben agreed, and the nurse hurried out of the room again.

“Ben,” I cautioned as he took my hand. “Don’t make trouble. I’ll be fine. They have reasons for their rules, I’m sure.”

“I don’t want to let you out of my sight.” He looked at me, the intensity in his ice blue eyes almost frightening. “If something happened to you and I wasn’t there, I couldn’t bear it.”

I tried to tell Ben again that I’d be fine, but the contraction that hit me just then made the reassurance hard to believe. I swallowed my words and gritted my teeth. The nurse rushed back into the room.

“All right, Mr Cumberbatch, you can come along, but you must stay out of the way!” Her frown showed her disapproval for this bending of the rules. I was sure she thought it was due to Ben’s celebrity status that the doctor had agreed. I thought that, within the hospital, my status as a physician might actually have more to do with the accommodation.

Ben thanked her profusely and offered to help her steer my bed down the hall. Appeased, she directed him how to release the brakes and we left the room. When we arrived in the outer room of the O.R. suite, she handed him a mask and shoe covers to complete his outfit. All I could see of him now were his blue-grey eyes, but I could still read the tension there, in the way his brows drew together and the little wrinkle he always got between them when he was worried. I squeezed his hand again, and then we were heading into the operating room.

The brightness of the lights made me blink, and I was unprepared when I was slid sideways onto the operating table. Ben was made to stand back against the wall as the nurses helped me sit up so that the anaesthesiologist could place the spinal block. Over the general hubbub, I heard Ben’s sharp intake of breath as the needle slid into my back. Once the catheter was taped in place, I was lowered back to the table and my gown was unceremoniously pushed up to my chest. Nurses started attaching straps and various leads to me. A sheet across my upper chest kept me from seeing the proceedings. I looked over at Ben. What little I could see of his face was pale, and he leaned against the wall. “Can my husband come over now?” I asked the anaesthesiologist as he placed an IV in my arm. He waved Ben to the stool next to my head. He dropped onto it gratefully.

“I think I see why they wanted me to wait outside,” he murmured in my ear.

“Are you alright?” I asked him. I wanted to touch him, but I couldn’t reach him due to my position and the IV in my right arm.

He laughed nervously. “You’re asking me if I’m alright?” he said. I agreed that it seemed a bit silly. By this time the prep was done, and I felt an odd sensation below the drape.

“I know you can feel this, Ophelia, but does it hurt?” Dr Wright asked. As I replied that it didn’t, Ben peeked over the drape and then quickly sat again.

“She’s pinching your skin with a clamp,” he said shakily.

“Perhaps you should stay sitting down,” I said as Dr Wright announced the beginning of the procedure. “Until death do us part probably doesn’t include seeing my insides.” Finally, Ben took the hand that didn’t have the IV in it. “Don’t let go,” I said, looking him in the eye. He nodded, maintaining eye contact.

Ten minutes later, it felt like the surgical team was rearranging my insides. “A lot of pressure,” someone said, and then it felt like someone was sitting on my upper abdomen. I squeezed Ben’s hand so hard that it must have hurt, but he didn’t complain. Then suddenly I heard a wail, and I realized this was it: we were parents. First one baby and then the other were waved quickly at us over the drape, then whisked over to waiting paediatric teams to be dried off and assessed.

“Hey Dad, you can come over!” one of them called over the chorus of cries from the babies. 

Ben looked at me, shaking his head. “I’ll wait until their mother can see them, thanks.” I suspected that the walk across the operating theatre, which would afford him a view of my open abdomen, played into his decision. I was just as glad that he kept holding my hand.

Suddenly two little faces appeared in front of us, swaddled in blankets and screaming. “This one’s your little girl,” someone said, holding her so that I could kiss her little face. “And here’s your son.” As I kissed his tiny face, Benedict was taking our daughter in his arms. His eyes were wide, and suddenly he laughed.

“Hello, little girl!” he crooned. “I’m your daddy.”

\-----

Eight hours later, when visiting hours were over, Ben and I were finally alone with our children for the first time. There had been a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and lactation consultants, interspersed with friends and family. My mother and sisters were the last to go home for the night. The babies had slept most of the time, waking to nurse or peer at the faces presented to them. They had been held the entire time, for Benedict refused to give them up unless someone else was holding them, and he was always eager to take them back.

Now our little family snuggled into the hospital bed, which was adjusted to let us sit up. We gazed at the little ones on our laps, sound asleep.

“Welcome to the world, Lily Genevieve Cumberbatch,” I said to the baby in front of me.

“And welcome to you, Liam Timothy Carlton Cumberbatch,” Ben said to our son. He looked at me, eyes shining with unshed tears of joy.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice full of gratitude.

“You’re welcome,” I said, smiling. “But you had something to do with this, too.”

“I know,” he answered. “But you’ve given me everything I’ve ever wanted. This—you – all three of you—are my dream come true.” The tears spilled out, running down his cheeks. “I finally have the family I’ve always wanted.” He was sobbing now, but still smiling.

“And we’ve only just begun,” I said, and kissed him.


	29. Epilogue 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second epilogue, and the end of our story.

Chapter 29 – epilogue 2

  
**The Times  
Thursday, July 19, 2046**   


  
**Sir Benedict Cumberbatch Turns 70**   


National treasure Sir Benedict Cumberbatch welcomes his 70th birthday today. He plans to spend it, and the coming weekend, with family and his closest friends. “I’m thrilled to be turning 70,” he joked. “It beats the alternative hands down.”

Sir Benedict was born in London on 19 July 1976, the son of actors Wanda Ventham and Timothy Carlton (Cumberbatch). After receiving his education at Harrow, he studied drama at the University of Manchester and the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art (LAMDA). After ten years of moderate success, Sir Benedict came to international attention in the role of Sherlock Holmes in the BBC adaptation of the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Easily making the jump to international film stardom, Sir Benedict became a household name around the world.

Despite his success in film, he continued to portray Sherlock Holmes for the BBC periodically, until the series came to a close in 2035. He has also returned to his first love, theatre, portraying characters from Sweeney Todd to Richard II. As a narrator, Sir Benedict stepped into the shoes of Sir Richard Attenborough upon his retirement.

Sir Benedict’s directorial debut came in 2021, when he stunned audiences with his documentary of conditions in South Africa, _Cape Town Riots._

Children’s charities have always been a focus for Sir Benedict, and he sits on the board of directors of several, including Dramatic Need.

He received his knighthood from King William V for service to the arts last year.

Family has always been of primary importance to Sir Benedict, and his 34-year marriage to cardiologist Dr Ophelia Parkes is rare in the entertainment industry. When asked the secret to a successful marriage, Sir Benedict joked, “Separate bathrooms.”

Quoted by the media in 2011 to be “broody,” and regretful that he was not a father by the age of 32, Sir Benedict made up for lost time after his marriage, growing his family by two within a year and ultimately fathering five children. When asked why the couple had five children, Sir Benedict quoted the late comedian Bill Cosby, saying, “Because we did not want six.”

Asked about plans for retirement, Sir Benedict scoffed. “I have the best job in the world. As long as projects come along that interest me, I will continue to work.” His father, Timothy Carlton, continued to work as an actor until his death at the age of 93.

Sir Benedict’s next project is a television adaptation of Mark Swivel’s _Water Falling Down,_ a story of father and son, with his third son, Martin Cumberbatch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bathroom comment is stolen from Sir Michael Caine, who has been married to his second wife for about 35 years.


End file.
